tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77552091474031695842024-03-13T12:38:12.906+11:00Jasmine RuigrokJasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.comBlogger233125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-29575867775659839992022-03-22T00:38:00.003+11:002022-03-22T13:04:40.025+11:00Pick Up the Crayon<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjDSzgbM7VAk7rCCI9wOPaj17owYEYS_nWl1HtubHsLx4kSxL3rCA4l0s5erZUPI_NtAveuXLA2vF6BTMwBSY6491CRQtgj5LhNP8uCFwxUla6F-dNC9lq3WsBtaSsDE8dNH87nroUoV8GhDtpdTKnwSK-cVY3j_DBiQqp2O2GwX2e4P77lvQbCQR/s1740/photo-1594569072762-3345ae34c93c.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="1740" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjDSzgbM7VAk7rCCI9wOPaj17owYEYS_nWl1HtubHsLx4kSxL3rCA4l0s5erZUPI_NtAveuXLA2vF6BTMwBSY6491CRQtgj5LhNP8uCFwxUla6F-dNC9lq3WsBtaSsDE8dNH87nroUoV8GhDtpdTKnwSK-cVY3j_DBiQqp2O2GwX2e4P77lvQbCQR/w640-h426/photo-1594569072762-3345ae34c93c.webp" width="640" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span></span></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"If you are faithful in little things, you will be faithful in large ones." — Luke 16:10</span></blockquote><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’d taken my Mum out for breakfast for her birthday. Time spent talking with her is always my absolute favourite thing in the world. Processing life and faith and lessons learned together with her is one of the greatest joys and encouragements that exist in my life. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">This particular day, we were discussing Christian growth, and how God uses His Word and opportunities to grow people into leaders. I related to her the story of a man I admired for his many faithful years of ministry work, how at one point in his life, he sat in a corporate office and was asked by a very successful man how he became such a good leader. Surrounding him on the walls of the office were certificates of leadership studies and achievements, and the man was floored that someone in such a position would ask him the question. He put it down to leading on beach missions for many years. I could see how all those years of saying yes to God helped mold and shape him into the leader he is now, and I marvelled that there are yet Christians who do not seem to grow in the same way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s like, God starts by offering you a crayon,” Mum said. “When you pick up and draw with the crayon for a while, God then offers you a water-based marker, and then a paintbrush. Then he gives you a pencil, and from there as you get better with it, a pen. After this, you’re offered a permanent marker, and then a wide paintbrush, and before long, you’re painting the side of a building. But it had to start with you saying ‘yes’ to the crayon. If you never pick up the crayon, you’ll never paint the side of a building. You won’t grow. By the time your friend found himself in that office, he’d already painted so many buildings, but he had to start with the crayon.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was really struck by this metaphor. Coming home, I was still turning it over in my mind as I stood in the sun, hanging washing on the line. I was thinking of someone I know, who, though a Christian, seemed to have no interest or desire to be a part of any kind of ministry or mission, even though people very close to them were passionate about it. For a long time I have wondered why this was so. The memory of Mum’s analogy and the answer suddenly hit me like a meteorite. I said out loud to myself, right there at the clothesline, pegs in hand:</span></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s because they never picked up the crayon.”</span></span></blockquote><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If it’s not a new one, a crayon can be an ugly little thing. It rubs off on your fingers if it doesn’t have a casing, it doesn’t draw smoothly, and leaves chunks of itself on the page. It’s messy, and seemingly ineffective most of the time. Yet they are good for children to learn with, harmless should they chew on them, and relatively easy to clean up after. Crayons are not glamorous, but they can be the beginning of something amazing for a future artist.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I spent much of my teens and into my twenties sitting on my bed for a couple of hours a day reading my Bible. It seemed like the best use of my time back then, considering I had a lot of it that was otherwise unoccupied. I chafed under the sameness of my life during that season. I wrestled with whether I should get work somewhere, but nothing I went after seemed right or succeeded. I prayed harder than I ever had before for a change. Long nights I spent walking around outside in the dark under the stars, pouring my heart out to God, all my hopes and dreams, but ultimately I came to rest my trust in His plans. While I did hon<span style="font-family: inherit;">estly believe all the time I spent in the Bible and prayer was important, I had no idea how much this humble crayon was preparing me for my first real opportunity. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">My big crayon moment was when the friend of some friends asked if I’d be willing to help my friends cook for a kids camp an hour from where I lived. I hated camps, believed kids hated me, and wasn’t convinced I didn’t feel the same way about them. I loved home, didn’t like cooking, but I knew I had the skills, and apparently they were desperate.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I knew I could help, and </span>I felt guilty, so I said yes. My ugly little first crayon opportunity. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Turns out I had a ball cooking with my good friends in a run down school house in the middle of nowhere on a farm with a bunch of kids surrounded by lovely people. I loved seeing kids experience what was basically my childhood; wearing gumboots, milking cows by hand, lighting fires, burning tussocks, crossing creeks and climbing hills. I also loved Jesus, and the way His Word was preached in this setting<span style="font-family: inherit;">; </span>thoughtfully connected to real life through the integrity of the leaders and the beauty of our surroundings. It moved me. I was impressed. I wanted more. So God handed me a marker. </span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cooking for a camp full of boys was one thing. Leading girls was another. Girls were weird. Girls wouldn’t like me. But the need for girl leaders outweighed the need for cooks, and so I reluctantly raised my hand. Turns out the girls adored me. I sat and wrote calligraphy in all their notebooks, let them braid my hair, and read stories to them around the fire. I fell in love with these girls that were my sole responsibility for a week, and I looked forward to the next year I could be with them again, praying with them, and sharing with them God’s Word. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The paintbrush God handed me was transitioning into leading at the youth group of my church. Every fortnight, and more often if I could, I would show up to lead 30-40 kids with a great team at my church, because I now knew that I didn’t hate kids, and they didn’t hate me either. I helped lead worship, and–thanks to the experience of sharing my testimonies at ag camps–I wound up preaching at youth a couple of times a term. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My permanent marker moment was directing ag camp. I had a small team, little knowledge of who they were, and barely a meeting to pull us together, but I showed up with a whole lot of trust in God and a whole lot of scared stiff to boot. God pulled us together as an incredible team, and the camp was a success. I thought I’d never do anything so terrifyingly stressful and fantastically good again. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">After chasing these various ministries around as a volunteer, a couple of years later, God offered me the thick, wide paintbrush. I was offered a position on staff with Scripture Union. I remember exactly where I was: on a mission at Tamworth Country Music Festival, sitting under a tree in the shade of a 40 degree day, on the phone when the words came through. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Are you interested in a job with SU?” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Time seemed to stop for a moment. I could feel my fears rising to the top, anxiety flooding my brain with every reason why I should say no. <i>“It’ll be scary, you’ll have to talk to so many people you don’t know, you have no idea what you’re doing, you don’t even know if you can do this, you’re out of your depth, you’ll fail, you’ll disappoint, you can’t–”</i> It would have gone on forever except I heard a sound come out of my own mouth unbidden. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes.”</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It’s been wild, and it’s been the scariest, biggest, most stressful and amazing two years of my life. I’m still being handed crayons in various ways and sizes, but I’m also being given the opportunity to handle some pretty decent markers, and maybe a<span style="font-family: inherit;"> can of </span>spraypaint here and there. I still have such a long way to go, but I am so far from where I was when I picked up my first crayon. </span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can’t help but have the greatest compassion for the Christians I see who never seem to have the courage to pick up an ugly crayon and give it a go. I can see the way it brings a hardness to their hearts; keeping them from being sensitive to opportunities from God, and causing them to overcommit to what they claim to despise. I don’t think I ever really hated kids. I was just afraid of what it would cost me to love them. I was afraid of the effort it would take, and how it would hurt to fail, and maybe I was afraid that I would actually like it more than I expected in the end.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On camp over the past weekend, I was reflecting with a couple of young ones on Jesus' words in Mark, "Repent, and believe the Good News". <i>Repent, </i>simply meaning <i>changing one's mind, </i>and believe the Gospel, the Good News. It's not often we have to tell someone to believe good news when they hear it. People can accept a truth gladly, but it may not always impact their lives. To believe something is to live in such a way that testifies it is true to you. Yet the pharisees and scribes were so dedicated to their way of thinking, they were unwilling to change their minds. The message, essentially, could be rephrased as: <i>Change your mind, and live like Jesus died for you. </i>God gave me the opportunity to change my mind. Instead of avoiding all opportunities to work with kids who I assumed hated me, I repented. There is now no greater joy in my life than that of sharing the Gospel with young people.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mark 9:41 reads that <i>“whoever gives you a cup of water to drink in Christ’s Name, because you belong to Christ, assuredly, I say to you, he will by no means lose his reward”</i>. Giving someone a cup of water is the absolute ground level easiest thing to do in the Name of Jesus and for His Kingdom. There is no lower crayon<span style="font-family: inherit;"> entry point</span> than this, and everyone will be handed it in life. Some many times over. The question is, will you take it? Will you pick up the crayon?</span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the more inspiring quotes I’ve ever heard I heard from a 31 year old woman who died of cancer this year. She was only a year older than me. She said, “Don’t you want to see what happens if you don’t give up?” In that same vein, my challenge to you is, “Don’t you want to see what happens if you say ‘yes’?”</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What’s your cup of water or crayon opportunity? It’s going to come. Maybe you’ll be asked to help cook for a camp, like me. Maybe you’ll be asked to lead at youth, or to be on a hospitality team at your church. Maybe you’ll be asked to drive a bus for a holiday Bible club, or give a testimony to a small group. Maybe there’ll be the opportunity to stand in the gap to play music, or work a coffee machine, or move chairs, or pray with someone. Maybe you’ll be asked to give a Bible reading, or start a lunchtime group, or teach SRE. Maybe you can fish, or play rugby, or hike, and you’ll be asked to contribute to one of those activities for the sake of the Gospel.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Maybe you can hammer nails, use a drill, or change the oil in a car. Maybe you can sew, or make crafts. Maybe these things can be used to build God's Kingdom. </span>Maybe someone thirsty will ask you for a drink of water. What will you say?<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Are you willing to change your mind?</span></span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Who knows what might happen if you say yes? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh it can be difficult, but trust me–trust Jesus–it is worth it. </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So when you get your opportunity, please say yes. You need it. The world needs it. I pray that God softens your heart to<span style="font-family: inherit;"> hear </span>His voice calling you. </span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I pray you pick up the crayon.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And I pray you keep doing it, so that someday, someone will see the buildings you paint and want to pick up a crayon, too. </span></div>Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-77480547431589138662021-10-05T23:01:00.000+11:002021-10-05T23:01:29.461+11:00Holding Still <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jO3BXVodOv8/YVwvOondyTI/AAAAAAAAbPM/wALCIrVjYQ4FndPjJjDpQZ5OgRVSTv3mACLcBGAsYHQ/s631/jasmine.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="631" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jO3BXVodOv8/YVwvOondyTI/AAAAAAAAbPM/wALCIrVjYQ4FndPjJjDpQZ5OgRVSTv3mACLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/jasmine.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Hold still, don’t run. You’ll never find the love you want if you take off when it gets real, you wanna be held, you gotta hold still.” – Taylor Leonhardt</i></span></blockquote><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s funny how often I experience profound moments when I’m standing in front of a mirror. Profound and depressing moments. This time I was pulling out grey hairs. Those pesky white strands have been growing thicker and faster through my dark blonde/brown hair, and as a result, I’m not able to get rid of them all now. However on this particular night, each one that I <span style="font-family: inherit;">stubbornly </span>yanked from my head felt like one for each year of my twenties; my youth being ripped away. </span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Melodramatic as it sounds, thirty is fast approaching and with it, the culmination of my worst childhood fears: I was going to be thirty, single, and still living at home. That had truly been my nightmare as a teenager. If I’d let it, it had the power to keep me up at night worrying about it. For all the good it did me.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For the past six months I’d had the delicious luxury of housesitting for some good friends in Maitland. I had long wanted to find a way to move to Maitland as it is the hub of my social, church and (mostly) work life. I also wanted to test the waters of living on my own, and this was the perfect opportunity to try it. I found that I loved it. Having the time and space to figure out what rhythms around work, exercise and socialising worked for me, habit forming, and meal prepping was such a joy to explore (although I’m still a sucker for a good microwave meal, not gonna lie). I fell in love with running, particularly with having such a beautiful place to <span style="font-family: inherit;">explore </span>with so many paths all around the suburbs and parks. Golden hour runs around Ashtonfield Oval while listening to my favourite audiobooks filled my heart to the brim. </span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Something about being alone, however, often has a way of amplifying the voids in your life God wants to fill that you might have otherwise been unaware of. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">This year I’ve been doing a leadership development course with Arrow Leadership, and while leadership on the surface seems to be about what you do, Arrow makes it clear that leadership comes from who you are. So who was I? I remember tears coming to my eyes on my first residential, sitting in the foyer at dusk with a fellow participant who was sharing his story of burnout and God confronting him with the fact he didn’t truly believe God loved him. Ouch. I felt the twang of something true go off in my spirit. I was exhausted from serving. Should someone who was at rest in the love of God be feeling like that? Unlikely. While I felt like the time to hit pause at that residential gave God the space to rewire some of the tangled up parts of my soul, I still had a long way to go. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My challenges with work and the insecurities that flared as a result brought me back to that same exhausted place a mere few months after those revelations, and after serving on Leadership Conference in July I was in desperate need of a break and some fun. By an absolute stroke of God’s grace, the snow trip my friends and I had planned from the beginning of the year was able to go ahead despite all the COVID and lockdown scariness, and we spent six blissful days on the slopes of Perisher in the peak of the season. I couldn’t remember a time before when I had been so happy. Good food, plenty of laughs, the thrill of getting to ski again, and be in fellowship with such fantastic company felt like a slice of heaven. I drank up every drop of that high, and went home intensely grateful. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The only problem with a high, is that inevitably, a low must follow. Which it did. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“You’ve heard it all before; the tired metaphors don’t move you anymore, you’re out of tears. If you get cold enough, maybe come close enough to let somebody love you; maybe Me.”</i></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The week in lieu I’d put aside to rest and recover from my trip to the snow was spent grieving a risk I took that ended with what felt like a slammed door to the face rather than the opportunity I had been hoping for. I was truly shattered. While not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, the pain was raw and the feelings of inadequacy swamped my heart enough for it to run aground on that question again: <i>who am I? </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So maybe that was why I was in front of the mirror, pulling out grey hair, reflecting on the past ten years of my life and wondering why I still didn’t know who the heck I was. I’d arrived back at the empty house with an emptier heart and sad eyes, and the silence seemed to whisper the question to me: <i>“who are you?”</i> That night I shared with my leadership partner over Zoom my struggles, and she too, managed to place her finger on the wound. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">“You know who God says you are in your head, but who do you say you are?” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn’t know how to answer her. The question haunted me for weeks. It felt as though everywhere and everyone else I looked at could be seen clearly and in focus. Yet the second my gaze turned inward, my vision became blurry and everything was indistinct. I sat for quiet hours in stillness on the floor of the living room; Bible open on the coffee table, curtains back to allow the sun to stream in, murmuring prayers and marvelling at what a beating the heart can take and still have the perseverance to go on beating.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was in the middle of all this when NEEDTOBREATHE released a new album called <i>Into The Mystery</i> (yet another grace: God always provides the music I need the moment I need it). It captured the very essence of what it meant to be an innocent child, untainted by the world and full of wonder at its beautiful possibilities. It hurt to listen to.<a href="http://bushmaid.blogspot.com/2020/04/ii-limp.html" target="_blank"> I’ve talked about my complex love/hate relationship with my childhood before.</a> As I was grappling with learning who I am, this album on repeat achingly reminded me of the child I was, and how much I missed her. <i>When we were young and we were undefeated</i>, the line sang. Argh, how I missed being undefeated. I felt defeated in work, in love, in life. Again, the greatest fear of thirty, single, and living at home mocked me from just around the corner. Three strikes, you’re out. Dumb as it is (because believe it or not, I do know my life won’t end at thirty!), I was feeling the impending weight of that last strike teenage-me had cursed me with. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">These were the songs frequently pumping in my ears when I went running. I don’t know when I fell in love with running or when it turned into a need, rather than an obligation. But it got so that when my head was full of voices, my heart was full of emptiness, or work got to be too much, running became my answer. Spring came early to Ashtonfield, and so golden hour was warm and sweet, and the deep orange of the sun at dusk flooded the streets with glory. I craved the beauty. I needed it. Three times a week, often more wherever I could fit it in, I would hit the pavement and breathe a sigh of delight and relief, reveling in the feeling of my feet moving beneath me. I had the fleeting thought that maybe I was running from all my problems, but I pushed it away. Exercise is exercise, I told myself. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Everybody has to land sometimes. You’re born to fly, I know. I’ve been watching from the ground. Sending smoke signals in case you need a little sign it’s safe to come down.”</i></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Springtime had arrived, and gardens were blooming everywhere. For some reason, most of my cherished childhood memories are always accompanied by the smell of blooming Jasmine flowers, and there is no scent that holds a stronger sense of nostalgia for me. In Ashtonfield, I don’t think there is a single street that doesn’t have it growing somewhere. So every evening when I went running, the air was thick with the rich smell of my namesake, everywhere I went. The irony was not lost on me. Here I was, out running; running away from the problem of who I was, and the scent that bore my name was in every breath I breathed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I literally could not run away from myself if I tried. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sitting in silent sadness at the piano one night, I flipped open my iPad on the music stand and spontaneously selected a video I had sent to Olivia earlier that year. It was an excerpt from Andrew Peterson’s <i>Resurrection Letters</i> Easter tour, and one of the openers was a young woman by the name of Taylor Leonhardt. Even though I’d listened to this song before, it felt like I was hearing it for the first time, and I sat there—crying—as the words washed over me. <i>Hold still, don’t run. You’ll never find the love you want if you take off when it gets real, you wanna be held, you gotta hold still. </i>I might have started running for exercise, but I think I’ve been running for many years in other ways. Running from my fears, running from good memories, running to serve others and forgetting that all I really want is to be loved and held; and I already am. Gosh. Why is that so hard to learn? To grasp? For it to move from my head down into my gut where nothing can shake it? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s hard because I’ve got to be still. To stop. Conversations with my leadership partner about rest felt like ripping all the bandaids and scabs to boot. Everything I learned on my Arrow residential about spiritual practises and rest; what one of the speakers said to me about “find your milk crate”; a place to sit and be until you remember who you are—I know how necessary it all is in my head, but do I gear my heart and my life towards it? Just stopping to know I’m loved, and letting that be enough? Barely. Yet everything I do flows from the person that I am, and I can only know who that is when I sit and be still long enough to know who He is, and who He says I am. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“No shame in coming back from all that greener grass, turns out you never lacked a thing.”</i></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">After hearing Taylor’s song live, I eagerly waited for her new album to drop. When her song <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjUn2TCxhOY" target="_blank">Poetry</a></i> first released, I was driving home with it on loop, sobbing the whole way. It came right in the middle of that intense time of disappointment and was akin to a friend taking my hand. I knew that when “Hold Still” came out, it would be the next hand to guide me on from here. Weird, yes, I know. But it truly is amazing the level of grace and kindness God extends to me; in that He knows how to give me a hand to hold when I feel most alone. I listened to the whole album all the way through, and almost constantly once it was released, but it took me some time to discern one lyric in the song that made me cry that night: <i>Turns out you never lacked a thing.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wow. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My mind raced back to Leadership Conference in July. I’d sat under teaching for five days straight on the book of James, and the entire conference was based on three little words. Three words on a hoodie I designed, no less.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Lack no thing. </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had been running for so long. For six months I had been wandering around lost in my own mind, trying to discover who I was, and it turns out who I was had been there all along. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am loved by God. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not for what I can do, or achieve, or for how useful I am. Just for me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s not that I’m enough in and of myself, but just my being with Him, and in His love… that is enough. I was made for loving Him, and to be loved by Him. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Taylor was right. I couldn’t find the love I wanted when I took off running when things got real. My soul craves nothing greater than to be held by someone who loves me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">And Someone does. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I just need to hold still for it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“You wanna be held, you gotta hold still.”</i></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">On the last night of my time in Ashtonfield, I went for a run. My last one. The weather had been grungy for most of the week, but it cleared up that day, and golden hour was as glorious as I’d hoped it would be. I was listening to NEEDTOBREATHE again, one of their more worshipful songs. Bear Rineheart’s voice was belting out the chorus as my feet were belting the pavement:<i> I am Yours, and You will always be mine, it seems like madness, I'm invited to the table by Your side. 'Cause I am Yours and You will always be mine; I'm a man whose one ambition is to dance with my Divine. 'Cause I am Yours, and You are, You are, You are, You are mine.</i> My heart was so, so full. Full of gratitude for my time in Ashtonfield, in such a beautiful home and a beautiful place. For music, that spoke to the deep sadnesses and joys of my soul. For the ability to run. For the joy of sharing that space with friends and family. For good food. For even the tears, and the sorrow, and for what it taught me. For the knowledge of God, and His love for me. Those words, “I am Yours, and You are mine” seemed to echo and reverberate in my mind as I ran, breathing deeply of the Jasmine-scented air. The tears in my eyes were only the overflow of the thankfulness in my heart.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As the sun sank beneath the horizon, I walked slowly back along the last street before my destination. I had a sprig of <span style="font-family: inherit;">flowering Jasmine i</span>n my hand that I plucked from a wild bush during my run. I was smiling to myself, and looking down as I crossed a driveway, I noticed someone—probably a child—had chalked a message in the corner of the concrete near the footpath: “love me”. </span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I backed up to read it again, and I glanced at the house. I had no idea who lived there, or what the nature of the message was, but it resonated. I stood there for a moment, gazing at the jagged chalk letters. As I turned to leave, I placed the sprig of Jasmine on the drive next to the text and continued walking. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Someone does, little one. Hold still, and you’ll know it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">His love is as close and present as the smell of Jasmine in the air.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">---</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Further listening:<br /></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B15KRb2mGAI&list=OLAK5uy_msamd0vPrDvms5Bho2wtXHZVmYLREQG60" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">Hold Still, Taylor Leonhardt<br /></a><i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLxA687tYuMWjNuRJ4eBLO_wNUMRmKMgIH" target="_blank">Into the Mystery, NEEDTOBREATHE</a></i></span></div>Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-56099360926063974692021-07-05T18:19:00.000+10:002021-07-05T18:19:00.678+10:00Courage at Cino's<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nLuz9sC5TYk/YOKzZoOttRI/AAAAAAAAbGU/Z5G2vISt67gmXIPMxkvd6M0JCyFd0s_8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s631/cup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="631" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nLuz9sC5TYk/YOKzZoOttRI/AAAAAAAAbGU/Z5G2vISt67gmXIPMxkvd6M0JCyFd0s_8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/cup.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It had been a long week in the midst of a pretty challenging month or so. I was spent beforehand, having been fighting off a cold and trying to claw my way out of a sludge of many small (albeit necessary) work tasks. Preceding the preceding week was an emotionally trying time of coping with a disappointment and the hard work of fending off discouraging voices in my head. It seemed as though no sooner had I made it over one mountain, another would rise in its place, and I was exhausted. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I arrived to serve on Leadership Conference for the week like this, but I knew God was faithful and would give me the energy I needed. More than that. I knew that Leadership Conference, a week spent in the company of young people, good teaching, and hands on work would be what I needed. <b>The chance to feel good at something again.</b> The chance to see—with my own eyes—the impact of all the behind the scenes work I had been entrenched in for months. To see Jesus touch lives. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Which I did. Oh, how I did. We heard well over fifteen testimonies from the kids on the last night. Each one so different, yet so full of God's grace. I saw them rise to the challenges over the week, and become confident, strong, assured. I saw kids open up to the love they were experiencing. I saw leaders connecting deeply with one another. We laughed. Cried. Prayed. It felt like I'd gone from trying to breathe underwater to being yanked to the surface to take a deep breath from an oxygen mask. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I returned home at the end of the week, and spent a day with my family, reminiscing the week and catching up with one another. I was mostly present, but I was also preoccupied by the need to finish my sermon for the following day. I preached at my church twice that Sunday, and I knew I was going to crash as soon as I got back to the empty house I was staying at. I was completely done. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I went to bed at 10pm and didn't set an alarm. I awoke sometime this morning and stayed in bed, dozing in and <span style="font-family: inherit;">out until I finally decided to get up. It was almost midday, the longest I've slept in for years (if ever). There was work I coul</span>d've done, but I decided my soul needed a break. My pantry and fridge also needed restocking. Grabbing my Bible and my journal, jotting down a quick list of groceries, then grabbing my keys, I headed for the mall two minutes around the corner. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I decided I would go treat myself to breakfast (even though at this point in time it was more like lunch) and sit and read my Bible; maybe journal for a while. My phone had gone flat as I'd lost my charger over the week, so I went to Big W first and bought a portable charger. On the way there, I'd noticed Cino's Cafe, and it looked full, so I dismissed it. A quick wander through the rest of the floor however didn't yield anything that looked cozy or out of the way enough, so my feet eventually returned to the doorway of Cino's, and I waited to be seated.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was greeted by a cheerful young man, who led me to a place at the bench looking out over the plaza. I sat down and allowed myself to take a breath. My mind was still quite cloudy, but I pulled out my Bible preparing to read Philippians for our next church series topic. As the young man returned to take my order, it took him what felt like a minute to get his first syllable out. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"D-d-d-d-d-d—did you want to order now?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I told him my order swiftly, thanking him as he confirmed it and went on his way. If only I could have returned to my thoughts as easily. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It had been a difficult few months for me with work. Strange, how I can love my job and all it stands for and yet find it so challenging at the same time. I'd been feeling constantly out of my depth, drowning in all that I <i>could </i>do and struggling to be sure of what I <i>should </i>do. There were people to meet, events to coordinate, meetings to run, paperwork to process, and I felt as I though I'd spent the majority of my time mustering up the courage for all the demands I could feel pressing in on me. "Mustering up" is a phrase I've heard Brené Brown use for trying to build up courage to face the challenges of life, and it feels like my modus operandi these days; the only way to push back the rising anxiety and fear that deep down, I am simply not cut out for this job. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So to see this young man with a very apparent stutter waiting on me, a job that requires an awful lot of speaking, floored me. I sat there, staring out across the mall watching the assortment of people walk by, and my eyes misted over. I felt shame for myself. Here was a guy who had showed up for a job where talking to people was at the heart of it, and he had a stutter. I don't, and I still <span style="font-family: inherit;">often </span>quail to pick up the phone to a stranger. I watched him greet the next set of people to arrive, and behind me I could hear him confirming their order, pausing on the start of almost every other word to wrestle through the syllable before he finished. He apologised, and I heard everyone at the table affirm him and tell him he was fine, and I could hear the encouragement in their voices. Tears welled in my eyes, and I couldn't contain them. It was an effort to compose myself before my meal arrived.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My Bible was open, and I moved slowly through Philippians, savouring each word as I savoured every bite of my eggs benedict and sip of good coffee. However my heart felt bruised. I felt both challenged, and caught out. It was no coincidence I ended up at this cafe. I even thanked God when I walked in, because I'd wanted breakfast, and it happened to be an all-day breakfast cafe. I was alone, surrounded by strangers, and yet God used someone to pierce my heart to the core. I don't know if the young man knows God, but if not, if he can have such courage to show up at a job that much of the world would tell him he is unqualified for, why can't I? All my excuses and validations seemed to fall to the ground empty. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It threw new light on the Scripture when I arrived at Philippians 4:13, <i>I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me. </i>Why don't I live like that? Clearly it's possible. I have Christ. While I have striven not to allow fear to dictate my life, it has been exhausting fighting against it. What if I realised I have no reason to fear? What if I viewed everything as possible, not because of anything I can bring, but because of Who is with me? How much more peace I would have then, and maybe not even need the courage I have been working so hard to muster up. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I turned over the serviette at the end of my meal and wrote a note:</span></p><p></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To the young man who served me: thankyou. Your courage inspired me today. I am not good at my job, and so often I feel afraid. You have reminded me that we don't have to be perfect, we just have to show up. Thankyou for your courage. Keep showing up. Philippians 4:13. God bless.</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's evening now, and sitting here at my computer I'm thinking of a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=12arkyuCYo4" target="_blank">song</a> by Ben Rector.</span></p><p></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been scared to death of failing<br />Scared that I'd look like a fool<br />And I'd rather quit than risk that I could lose <br />And I'm not proud of that position, no<br />But it's the hand that I've been dealt<br />But as far as I'm concerned that hand can go to hell </span></blockquote><p></p><p></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Chase me down outside of Georgia<br />And I was sure that I was done<br />Something in me would not turn around and run <br />I heard the Lord in California<br />And I remembered who I was when I learned to dance with the fear that I'd been running from.</span></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">And I remembered who I was when I learned</span> to dance with the fear that I'd been running from<span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe I'm remembering who I'm meant to be, and these are my first steps in that dance. </span></span></p><p></p>Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-30626657564487773902020-12-30T21:22:00.002+11:002020-12-31T07:08:08.174+11:00With Gratitude<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-342Ph3niVIU/X-F80lQAOzI/AAAAAAAAa04/mpXDQbfa-kMZDASkHXZtnAsPwNvrUM2bgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/beforeafter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1169" data-original-width="2048" height="366" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-342Ph3niVIU/X-F80lQAOzI/AAAAAAAAa04/mpXDQbfa-kMZDASkHXZtnAsPwNvrUM2bgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h366/beforeafter.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-variant-ligatures: none; letter-spacing: 0.1px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes I’m the lifeboat, sometimes I’m sinking. Sometimes the shepherd, sometimes the lost sheep. But always I’m shaped by the people who love me. — Andy Gullahorn</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">People often wait to become something great or create something epic before making a public show of <span style="font-family: inherit;">thanks. T</span>hey appear in movie credits, book forwards, or speeches at significant birthdays or weddings. That’s valid. No one wants to spend every day of their life writing exhaustive lists of everyone they owe their gratitude to for everything. However in lieu of these milestone events, the opportunities to publicly honour those who have contributed to your journey are sadly few. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t like that. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The last twelve months of my life have been phenomenal. I’ve grown so much, learnt so much, met so many people and been so blessed by them on this journey. It has been one of the most profound years of my life, and I truly feel like a different person to who I was this time in 2019. So I’m taking an insignificant moment to offer some significant people a public thankyou for their presence in my life and <span style="font-family: inherit;">for</span> the unique ways they have contributed to who I've become this year. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">In no particular order:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Sarah Carter, Michaela Mason, Elizabeth Allen, Josiah & Katrianna Hoodenpyle</b>. You are the ones who stay. Time and space literally have no bearings on our friendship. Your faithfulness and nearness of spirit—no matter the distance—are such bulwarks in my life. You are safe places. You are always a phonecall or a text away, even if it has been months in between. I know if ever I were in a crisis, you would move heaven and earth to support me. That surety is priceless. Thankyou for your enduring love. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Madeleine & Clayton Cowley, Bethany Bell, Hannah Alley, Rachel Bemmer</b>. You have let me be real in ugly ways and loved me despite it. You have been voices of wisdom, a safe place for my wounded heart, and a kind spirit when I needed one. Whether you've known me for half my life or only recently, our <span style="font-family: inherit;">connection has been close to kindred for me. In many ways, God has rescued me through you and I am </span>deeply grateful for your lovingkindness and godliness. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Lindsay & Nicole Teasdale, Julie & David Guy, Stephen & Cherie Punch, Andrew & Sue Betts, Neil & Jenny Parish.</b> You not only invited me into your church and your homes, you invited me into your hearts. You have upheld me in prayer, held me when I’ve cried, been a steady support I can lean on, and you have loved me when I have had nothing to give in return, and that humbles me to my core. I could not have asked for better mentors and Godly examples in my life. “Thankyou” is too small a word for all I wish I could express.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>James White, Glenn Coombs, Dave Tankard.</b> The Lord used you to set me on a path I never would have found on my own. When I had countless voices in my head telling me “you can’t”, you said “you <span style="font-family: inherit;">can”. The extent of your belief in me humbles me to this day, but more than that, the extent of your belief in the mission is what matters most. Th</span>e way you live dedicated to the call of Christ continues to inspire and challenge me to live wholly for Him. I cherish your wisdom and knowledge so freely shared, and I am grateful also to <b>Miriam, Leanne and Jude</b>: your gentle support, strength of character, and quiet wisdom has been a gift to me, even just by your presence. The beauty and peace each of you carry have been so influential in my life. What incredible teams you are. I pray someday I am able to be even half as inspirational to someone as all of you have been to me. Thankyou for your faith. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>My extended family. </b>You know who you are. You are the aunts, uncles, cousins, and cousins’ children who have shown me what family means. You show up, you travel long distances, you call, you remember birthdays, you visit, you invite, you work through hard, hard things. You keep looking forward. Your presence in my life means I have a strong foundation under my feet that tells me to keep <span style="font-family: inherit;">walking,</span> and to make a difference. You remind me life is worth living.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>My brothers and sisters-in-law, Jacob & Emily, Isaac & Kate.</b> Yo</span>u have invited me to be a part of your families, allowing me to be an aunty to your children and so freely given me the opportunity to love them. Don't underestimate the gift it is to my single heart to have children around me, and to have your interest in my life amidst the fullness of your own. It is so deeply appreciated. Having you all in my life is one of the brightest parts of my existence, and it’s a gift I pray I never take for granted. Thankyou for your presence. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>My siblings, Olivia, Thomas, Lily, Caleb.</b> You make my life fun and interesting, while always challenging me to be a better person. You’ve been along for the ride with my crazy adventures, you’ve supported me, loved me at my worst, and made me laugh more than anyone else on earth. Life would simply not be as rich or as colourful without you. Thankyou for loving me. It means the world. Shoutout in particular to Olivia for being the soundboard for hours of processing/venting, the kick in the butt when I sorely needed it, the always supportive, always optimistic, always challenging, always hilarious, and always striving for excellence sister and partner in ministry. You've made me a better person simply by being you. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Dad</b>, thankyou for your love and your support in all that I do. Knowing you approve of the life I'm living blesses me more than you'll know. The way you continually seek out the best on my behalf, the energy you give to helping me when I need assistance with anything, and your tireless work ethic are gifts that are irreplaceable to me. Thankyou for the sacrifices you have made, and for all that you have given me. I'm undyingly grateful. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Mum</b>, our souls were cut from the same cloth. Words will fail to articulate my deep thankfulness for the way you have counselled me, mentored me, discipled me, mothered me, befriended me. There is no one like you on the planet, and I owe God a debt I couldn't repay—even if I lived a hundred lifetimes—for giving me you. Thankyou for the depth of your love and support, but especially, thankyou for the way you live like you believe the truth of who Christ is. May I ever follow in your footsteps of faithfulness. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Jesus</b>. Only you know the journey it has taken for us to get here, and where we are to go from here. You have seen me at my absolute worst, and yet you stay. In fact, you still consider me worth the cost of your life, even knowing all the ways I am weak, pathetic, needy, broken and sinful. You have carried my grief and my sorrow, you have shared my joys and delights. This year you have walked with me through the darkness of tragedy, death, sickness, pain and heartache, and even when I haven't felt you anywhere, you brought me through it into the light again. You discipline me, correct me, teach me, and help me endure hard things, yet always you love me, give me more grace and mercy than I deserve, and make me better than I am. You have suffered my anger with kindness, my secret shames and burdens of guilt you took on yourself, in the times I've forgotten you, your faithfulness has remained. You love me too well to leave me as you found me. You are a friend that is closer than a brother. No one cares for me as you do. You are worthy of all my awe, all my devotion, all my life. May I ever be found in Thee. I love you. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are many more names I could add to this list, and my gratefulness overflows to them also. Every kind word, every gentle rebuke, and even every hardship given for God to use as an instrument of goodness in my life I am growing more and more thankful for. It is with this deep sense of gratitude in my heart that I face the coming new year. I feel more whole than I have for a long time. I have been trained by the Lord's discipline, and by His grace, it has given me a strength and readiness to face what comes next with courage and perseverance. As I look back on the person I have been, I find myself so thankful for where God has brought me, and for the people He gave me. By His mercy, may we all be found faithful still. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Welcome, <span style="font-family: inherit;">2021. </span></span></p><p></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t know where I’m going, these dreams are all I’m holding. Take me down any road,</span> I’m dancing in the dawn of the unknown. — Jake Scott</span></blockquote><p></p>Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-56644901291384957492020-11-24T23:06:00.000+11:002020-11-24T23:06:34.513+11:00III. The Dawn<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jMgLF6F47do/X7zs2X1MZFI/AAAAAAAAayg/CUOVSNW31rsyHj2nlnz-sR4W8RocNcyzACLcBGAsYHQ/s631/dawn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="631" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jMgLF6F47do/X7zs2X1MZFI/AAAAAAAAayg/CUOVSNW31rsyHj2nlnz-sR4W8RocNcyzACLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/dawn.jpg" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “So Jacob named that place Peniel, saying, ‘I have seen God face to face, but my life was saved.’ Then the sun rose as he was leaving that place.” </span><b style="font-family: inherit;">–</b><b style="font-family: inherit;"> Genesis 32:30-31a NCV</b></blockquote></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “I’ve been waiting for the sun to come blazing up out of the night like a bullet from a gun, till every shadow is scattered, every dragon is on the run; oh, I believe, I believe that the light is gonna come; this is the dark, this is the dark before the dawn.” <b>– Andrew Peterson</b></span></blockquote></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Shiny things attract me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Things that sparkle, things that glow. Not blingy stuff, per se, but things that just shine or catch the eye in a beautiful or magical way. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I remember being a little girl at the local show, and as dusk fell, all the carnival vendors would pull out their cheap plastic gadgets and toys with pulsing LED lights inside them. The dark alleys would soon be lit up with the neon of the show rides, and hundreds of glowing orbs, gaudy headbands and lightsabers. I used to admire the teenagers walking by laughing and rowdy with all their trinkets; shadowy figures you could see coming from a long way off thanks to glow stick necklaces and flashing stuffed toys. Add to this the excitement of fireworks at the end of the night, and all of it transformed the dusty showground into a fairyland. Once I got home, I remember putting the one trinket I was allowed to buy on my nightstand, and I would watch it pulse and glow with wonder. I’d stare at its magic until I drifted off to sleep.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I still like shiny things, however they’ve taken on a different form since I’ve gotten older. From my teenage years, my love of glowing things slowly morphed into a love of glowing praise, shiny words, or sparkling affirmation. I was drawn to the magic of people’s approval, and I would bask in the wonder of the love I thought people had for me. While I didn’t particularly seek out the brightness of the spotlight, I did strive to always be a star; whether that was being the best at a given task, or being the favourite – a teacher’s pet. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In recent times this tendency has shifted to seeing the gold in others. It is so natural for me to admire the character of people I respect, to take a shine to their virtues, and aspire to be like them. For me, the impact they've made for the Kingdom and the legacies they have left behind glow like beacons in such an attractive way that I can’t ignore them. So you see, I’m still a sucker for shiny things. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The trouble with shiny things, is that they often make perfect idols. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whenever I think of the word “idol”, the image of a squat little golden Budda statue often comes to mind, but that is a rather two-dimensional understanding of the word. Idolatry is a sin the Bible talks about at great length, yet so rarely makes its way into our present day conversations and sermons. Since working my way through Isaiah and Jeremiah this year, however, I’ve come to recognise more clearly how prevalent a sin idolatry is, particularly in my own life. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You’ve probably heard it said that discerning between good and bad isn't hard, but rather, it’s discerning between what is good and what is best. I find it incredibly easy to recognise the good in people and situations. This, of course, is a Godly thing. It’s good to be able to discern the Presence of God or the fruit of the Spirit in someone’s life, or to recognise the way God uses people and things to encourage us and remind us of His great love and care for us. They are reflections of His nature. <b>It’s when I become bedazzled by those reflections instead of Him that I get into trouble.</b> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m ashamed to admit how easy it is for me to make an idol out of good things, rather than seeking the best that is Christ. It was one thing to go through books of the Bible and write notes in the margins about the idolatry of Israel, but another thing to recognise the ways I so quickly stumble into it in my own life. It was enormously confronting to see the pathetic neediness in my nature that wanted to wrap my hope, my worth, and my admiration around what mere people could give me. How I craved affirmation, to be told I had done well, and to be considered of special regard or importance. I recognised it in the disappointment I could feel if I wasn’t as praised as someone else, or how I wanted to see my name in writing when it came to offering thanks. It was disgusting to me and discouraging how compulsive these thought patterns had become. Even my use of past-tense words right now are a stretch. Turning from these temptations and tendencies remains a present work of God in my life. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”<b> – C.S. Lewis.</b></span></blockquote></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">So much of this struggle has highlighted the fact that <b>this life is not my final destination.</b> C.S. Lewis was right; how easily pleased I am. How is it I can look to the words or affirmation of another human as my ambition? Why do I work so hard to please people, doing a dance for their approval or making a god out of their character and virtues, when in the end I will stand, not before the crowd or a human, but before my Maker? The foolishness of the Israelites’ constant repetition of bowing down to something shiny only confirmed my own folly of losing sight of eternity. The glimpses of good in others – affirmation, encouragement, love, approval, character, virtue, praise – no matter how good, are still incomparable with the best that Christ is. I know it, in my head. But my heart still reaches out to snatch at the goodness it sees like a selfish, hungry child. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve often been critical of those who seek instant gratification above holiness. How could someone choose the convenience of sex over an intentional and healthy relationship, I would wonder. Or choose a high, a good time, a drink, or a binge over faithfulness to Christ? Yet I (so holy!) can fold like a stack of cards to a compliment, or bow down to saying “yes” to please another, or bask in the glow of praise from a superior as if I’m God’s gift to the world. Who is the hypocrite now? <b>Chasing reflections was just my preferred form of instant gratification. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> A friend of mine once called these shiny reflections ‘echoes’. “If you chase the echoes, you will never find what you were looking for,” He said. “Men have driven themselves mad that way. But if you chase the real thing, and set your mind on eternity, you can find much of what you thought you had lost.” How much more true this statement has become for me. It’s not the reflections that I truly want, I keep telling myself. It’s the sun.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “So I’m waiting for the King to come galloping out of the clouds while the angel armies sing, He’s gonna gather His people in the shadow of His wings and I’m gonna raise my voice with the song of the redeemed because all this darkness is a small and passing thing.” </span><b>– Andrew Peterson</b></blockquote></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The sun. The Son. When the reflections dazzle and distract me, it’s not the shiny that I really want. It’s what the shiny reflects. <b>My worth and my validation cannot survive on human praise alone.</b> I was wired for the words of my Saviour: <i>“Well done, my good and faithful servant.</i>” The reflections con me. They make me think I’m not living in the dark, that there aren’t shadows and dragons here. They make me think human love is enough, that their praise equals fulfillment. It doesn’t. They are fleeting, passing things. It’s the Master’s voice I need. I am driven mad when I seek it from my peers, or my mentors. Yes, both are important and both can be expressions of God’s love and guidance towards me, however they are not Him. They are good, but they are not the best. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pride would tell me I am blameless. I try not to listen to that voice. It’s far too easy to see oneself in a favourable light and not recognise the darkness of such idolatry. Isaiah’s words chasten me well:<i> “woe to those who trust in Egypt, horses or chariots; who do not look to the Holy One of Israel, nor seek the Lord! The Egyptians are men, and not God; their horses are flesh, and not spirit. Return to Him; for in that day every man shall throw away his idols of silver and his idols of gold – sin, which your own hands have made for yourselves”</i> (Isaiah 31). It is a painful retraining of my mind to look a friend in the eye, receive their kindness, and still say, “you are not my God”. How foolish it seems, written there so plainly on the page. How much it proves my desperate need for grace and mercy. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, only by the said grace and mercy of my Saviour, I’m able to lift my eyes from the things of earth. With the recognition of their futility, the shiny things grow strangely dim, and I’m again searching the skies for the Son. It makes a yearning, a longing, a desperation well up in my heart when I don’t see Him yet. No longer distracted by reflections,<b> I ache for the real thing.</b> Isaiah’s words ring true once again, <i>“in that day a man will look to his Maker; and his eyes will have respect for the Holy One of Israel. He will not look to the altars, the work of his hands; he will not respect what his fingers have made, nor the wooden images nor the incense altars”</i> (Isaiah 17:7-8). This dawning has been slow to arrive, but I see it now. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wonder at Jacob, having wrestled with God and seen His face – a face that left Moses’ face glowing with the reflection of it. How must the sunrise have looked that morning? Dim? Jacob had been made weak with a limp in the wrestle, had turned from his own desires, and looked into the face of his Master. Yet he couldn’t stay there. He had to limp away to face his future. He wasn’t home yet. Did all his possessions seem lacklustre after that moment? Did the approval of his brother no longer matter? Did he quit scheming to keep his image intact and make peace with the weak and pathetic man he was? Weak and pathetic, but who had seen the face of God. I don’t know for sure, but I can’t help but imagine that every sunrise he saw after that encounter served to remind him of the true Light he was looking for. <b>He had seen the real thing. He was no longer content with the reflections the world had to offer. </b>Even the dawn was just a shadow compared to the glory of God. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My favourite quote of all time (and probably will be forever), was penned by a young man named Joshua Eddy. If you don’t know his story, I strongly suggest you seek out his blog and read it. The quote reads, <i>“to pursue anything but the full measure of the glory of God’s love is a wasted life.”</i> I have known this truth to varying levels over the course of my life, however facing my own shallowness has given it a greater depth. Do I truly live like I believe this? Sadly, not always. The wrestling with evil will blind me at times. The limp of humanness will occasionally make me falter. But I don’t want to live there. No, <b>I want to deeply, truly, wholly know the love of God that surpasses all knowledge.</b> I want to believe with all my heart and soul the love of God for myself, for me: to know in a tangible and undeniable way that He, He loves me. To be assured that my life is not wasted on this glorious pursuit. How I wrestle! How pride tries to rise above the goodness of God and reduce it to a reflection. How I love myself or others too much or not enough, or hate what I do too much or too little. Though I can despair at times when my level of belief doesn’t match what I claim, I cling to the pursuit of believing God’s love for me. How I long for the day that my understanding is unimpeded by any lie, by any selfishness, or by any sin. When I finally stand before my Maker, trusting fully in His Son, coming home at last, and I finally believe the King truly loved me all along. Eternity glows like the dawning sun in the distance; the Son rising, guiding me, reminding me that He is calling me Home, to where I belong.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Home. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Make haste, my Beloved. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “I had a dream that I was waking at the burning edge of dawn, and I could see the fields of glory, I could hear the Sower’s song. I had a dream that I was waking at the burning edge of dawn and all that rain had washed me clean, all the sorrow was gone. I had a dream that I was waking at the burning edge of dawn, and I could finally believe the King had loved me all along, I had a dream that I was waking at the burning edge of dawn, and I saw the Sower in the silver mist, and He was calling me Home.” </span><b>– Andrew Peterson</b></blockquote></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Lead me home, Jesus. Let me die to my need to be someone important. Let me die to my need to leave a mark.”<b> </b></span><b>– Andrew Peterson</b></blockquote></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-82434972788276736472020-04-26T22:03:00.000+10:002020-04-26T22:03:23.983+10:00II. The Limp<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Now when He saw that He did not prevail against him, He touched the socket of his hip; and the socket of Jacob’s hip was out of joint as He wrestled with him.” - Genesis 32:25</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Generally speaking, I’m too busy, too driven, and too focused to notice the things I don’t have (unless of course it’s in my face, like my printer isn’t working). I’m typically a pretty easygoing and contented person. However when my world stops swirling and I’m still and quiet, things slowly float to the surface. Repressed longings and yearnings start to ache, like the throbbing pain of a hammered thumb that keeps its victim awake at night. The things my heart so earnestly craves emerge in the absence of preoccupation, and I can’t help but sigh for the day I don’t feel the limp anymore. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I deeply desire to marry (there, I said it). Why it’s always so difficult and painful to admit, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the vulnerability of being honest about a reality I can do little to change. Lord knows, whole books are written on the subject, so I have no need to belabour the many strategies for procuring a “happily ever after” here. But the ache to share my life and my heart with someone who is passionate and hard working has never gone away; despite the many <a href="http://bushmaid.blogspot.com/2016/12/to-them-who-find.html">stages </a>and <a href="http://bushmaid.blogspot.com/2016/11/not-single-thing.html">philosophies </a>I’ve been through in life. Though I don’t feel desperate or hopeless, it just isn’t my reality yet. Which means for the present, there will be painful times. But don’t we all have that same pain in some way, shape or form? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Everyone wants something they don’t have. Everyone can point to a place in their life that feels like a barren wasteland. Even if someone was in their best season ever, and you handed them a microphone and asked, ‘What do you want that you don’t have,’ they’d still be able to give you an answer. Whether it’s a bigger house, or more job opportunities, or greater influence, or kids, or a girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever—everyone I know wants something they don’t have. Don’t you? What do you want that you don’t have?” — <b>Remember God, Annie F. Downs</b></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At the end of 2019, I was browsing Koorong. Running my fingers along the book spines in the women’s section, my touch stopped on a book by Annie F. Downs. It was called “Remember God”. Intrigued by the title (and also the gorgeous binding. I will die a designer), I pulled it off the shelf and read the back. “I know God is loving; I know He is good; I believe He is big and powerful. But sometimes I wonder if He is really kind— really deeply always kind. Is He?” The question hit a chord way down inside me somewhere, as if I had just discovered a wound that I didn’t know I had. I bought the book, and one Saturday afternoon I sat on the verandah of our granny flat and read almost the entire thing in one sitting, ugly crying for most of it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was a story so similar to my own; longing for things, wanting to believe for them, being gut-wrenchingly disappointed, and picking up the pieces of hurt and trying not to put them back together in one big, cynical, jaded puzzle; all the while wondering what God’s kindness looks like (if it exists). Even down to the date, the book ended on an unresolved note on a New Year’s Eve - the same day of 2019. The timing of the book felt like both a smack in the face and oddly, a gift from God. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“This darkest season marked me forever. It’s done a thing in me I can’t explain, except that I keep picturing what happens when a chunk of stone gets chipped out of a statue. It doesn’t ruin the statue, but it sure does change it permanently. And that feels like me. I can’t pretend I didn’t stand out in the storm while my entire self got soaked and beat up. I can’t pretend my soul hasn’t been weathered. It has. I’m rougher for it. I’m chipped forever. I have a limp that will not heal.” —<b> Annie F. Downs</b></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I limped out of 2019. That year I suffered quite a few blows that left me nursing scars I wish I could forget. But after reading Annie’s book, my heart felt like a blank slate before God. 2020 launched me into a month of ministry and as I shelved my pain to serve, I could sense God writing, filling up the slate with new purpose, new direction. I was given the opportunity to serve on staff in a paid position in a ministry I deeply loved, and I forged against my insecurities and fears to say yes to it. I had a whole new world opened to me with new colleagues and friends, challenges and lessons; new territory in my life that I had only dreamed would happen. In so many places of naivety, uncertainty, and self doubt, God showed Himself so immensely faithful, reminding me just how little I can do without Him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Throwing myself into work I adore, and embracing new challenges made it easy to forget my limp. Almost. It’s still there. Sometimes I lay awake at night and just… wonder. In some ways, it’s startlingly clear to me how God’s hand has miraculously directed my life and caused me to arrive in this ministry position. But there are other threads that end in question marks. “What the heck was that friendship even for? What was the whole point of that experience? Why do I still ache for a someone when I know God is enough?” I know God is good and faithful to direct me and my gifts to a place where He knows they will operate best. But kind…? I wonder to myself. Is it heresy to even voice the thought, “Will I only truly believe God is kind if I see Him grant my heart’s fondest desire?” And if He doesn’t, then what? Is there more to this itch I’m not paying attention to?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lately I’ve been nannying for my brother and sister-in-law until their new baby comes. I spend most of my time with their two girls under three, watching them play, argue, and eat. As I watch them, I've found memories coming back to me. I remember being their age. Watching my little niece stick her head outside the pram just to watch the wheel go round, I remember. I remember certain types of grass that I made toy meals out of, or used as string to tie teepee sticks together with. I remember songs I sang, or games I made up. I remember how I saw the world, and even now, I can feel tears welling up just at the thought of how bright and beautiful everything was to that curly-haired little girl who tho</span>ught she would grow up to be a princess who lived in the Disney castle. What on earth is wrong with me? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can feel bitterness rise in me as I recall who she was. I almost resent her, for her good and easy life. On a staff development retreat early in the year, we were asked to draw a timeline of our life and label the different seasons we experienced. I called my childhood “Innocence”. While my growing up years weren’t perfect, they were marked by an idyllic innocence that led me to see the world more like a story that ended with smiles and rainbows rather than the pain and confusion I’ve so often found. “Liar,” I think to myself now. “How dare you have such a wonderful childhood to believe in when the world is so different from what you think it is.” I feel almost conned by that younger me; to have believed her perspective of the world, and now after living in it for a while, finding it wanting in so many ways. Yet how quickly shame arrives on the heels of these honest thoughts. “How ungrateful you are,” it hisses. “How much worse so many others have had it, and you regret the blessing God gave you?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“And it was good, good, good / now it’s gone, gone, gone / and there’s a little boy who’s lost out in the woods always looking for the fawn / So come back to me, please come back to me / is there any way we can change the ending of this tragedy? Or does it have to be this way?” — <b>Andrew Peterson</b></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the midst of these hurts coming to the surface that I didn’t even realise <span style="font-family: inherit;">were </span>there, something about Andrew Peterson’s “Light For the Lost Boy” album had been pushing its way into my heart. I’d known most of the songs on that record for years, and yet I found myself listening to it on repeat; aching, limping, moaning inside myself as I listened through the lyrics. Songs I had first heard years ago and didn’t “get” or like, I was now hanging on every word. I looked up stories behind the songs, video journals on YouTube about the album, and as I did, I stumbled across the artist speaking these words:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"This album at its heart is about the loss of innocence that we all go through. The fact that it's a universal experience. Everyone, I think, has inside of them a ten-year-old version of themselves who lives in their heart and is looking around wondering what went wrong.”</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I cried. It still makes me cry. I feel as though the adult shell of who I’ve become is grieved and angry over how broken and messed up this world I’ve woken up in is, yet it still houses that ten-year-old version of myself; the kid in the dirty shirt, messy hair she’d barely brushed in a week because she was too busy playing in the sun and relishing in her fantastic imaginings, her; she’s hidden inside, wondering why we’re limping now. Wondering how we got here. Wondering why it doesn’t look like we thought it would. Such a huge part of my wrestling has been with myself: adult me, hurt and angry, blaming younger me for selling me a lie, but at the same time, wishing with all my heart I could go back and be her again, even for a day. To forget. To be unmade, and untarnished, and unhurt. To be free. To believe like she did. To see everything sad become untrue. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe that’s why I limp; why we all limp. See, maybe I’ll get married, and maybe I won’t. But the limp won’t go away. We were made for an eternity of good things, for true love, for a world that doesn’t die. Walking along the road one day this Autumn in the clear blue sky, the gorgeous warmth of the afternoon sun, the fields green from the prayed-for rain, I looked down and noticed a wren dead on the side of the road. There it was again, a stinging blow to my soul. Perfection doesn’t exist, but I crave it. I yearn for it. Every fiber of me was made for it, and I don’t see it. Death and pain and unmet craving and loss of innocence isn’t what I was made for. None of us were made for this. I need something more. Not to go back to ten year old me, but to go on to eternal me, where nothing will ever die again. At home in the Presence of God. My heart is restless till it finds its rest in Thee. I will be restless, yearning, limping and hurting until the day I die. No marriage, no higher calling, no ministry, no miracle, no desire met on earth will slake the eternity in my soul that th<span style="font-family: inherit;">is mortal world cannot satisfy. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But there is God’s grace, His mercy, His undying faithfulness and love abundant here. Maybe it truly is His kindness to give a limp at times. If I were truly satisfied here, in Him, would I look forward to that day? More than likely not. Would we even need to see Him face to face if a life of faith on earth was enough? We wouldn’t. Maybe if I didn’t limp in some way, I wouldn’t know how much I need Him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“When the struggle is over, Jacob is left with a limp that - as far as we know—never went away. He wanted a blessing, and he got a limp. Or maybe the limp was his blessing. “ — <b>John Ortberg</b></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wonder if that’s why Jacob limped. It may have healed, and he may have got along just fine in time. But maybe that wrestling with God—that tenacity of spirit that writhed and struggled with God Himself to get a blessing—maybe there was a lesson wrapped up in that somewhere which God didn’t want Jacob to forget. Sure, he got his blessing— a new name—but he got a limp as well. I wonder if every time he took a step he remembered where he got it, and who gave it to Him? What lessons would he have recalled because of it? 2019 hurt me bad enough that things changed inside of me. I no longer approach people or circumstances in the same way, with the same lens that I used to look through. That me is gone, much like Jacob was gone and Israel remained. While I don’t think God is an inflicter of punishment or pain, I do think He can u<span style="font-family: inherit;">se those things to</span> open cracks in our heart for Him to pour His healing Spirit into; cleansing us, redirecting us, changing us into something new. How many new names will we receive in this lifetime, I wonder? How many versions of ourselves will die, and will we bury and mourn at the graves of before our final death, where we rise again to the only name we will ever have for the rest of eternity? (Rev. 2:17)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So I will drag a leg for the rest of my time here. It may heal somewhat, but there will always be a numb patch, or a cramp to remind me not to get comfortable here. But maybe there are ways adult me can learn from younger me. Younger me reminds me that good things do exist. The limp is a kindness, reminding me of them. That’s why it hurts so bad. It has to be truly good if the lack of it hurts so. Younger me can take adult me by the hand and lead me back to the Source of that goodness. The idyllic childhood, and the rose-coloured glasses I looked through? It wasn’t naivety or idealism. It was eternity. Maybe children can see better than adults. I know the only reason I’m bitter or resentful now is because I want what younger me had. And I will, someday. Ten year old me will help me get there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After all, didn’t Jesus Himself say we must come as a child?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And a child wouldn’t let a limp stop them, they just come.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe that’s just another way God is kind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He came first.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Come back soon, Lord Jesus. I miss you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“And it hurts so bad / but it's so good to be young / and I don't want to go back / I just want to go on and on and on / So don't lose heart, though your body's wasting away / Your soul is not, it's being remade / So don't lose heart, don't lose heart / your body will rise and never decay / day by day by day.” <b>— Andrew Peterson</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"He answered me, 'I am all you need. I give you My loving-favor. My power works best in weak people.' I am happy to be weak and have troubles so I can have Christ’s power in me." — <b>2 Corinthians 12:9 NLV</b></span></blockquote>
<br />Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-9193990018123439922020-01-14T13:21:00.000+11:002020-01-14T13:21:11.537+11:00I. The Wrestling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qkdTw05ud9c/Xh0Yyq8cKHI/AAAAAAAAaWY/Bi_jXiS0WJUxJYd_Koprkj7Wt84N5F4-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/New%2BProject.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="604" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qkdTw05ud9c/Xh0Yyq8cKHI/AAAAAAAAaWY/Bi_jXiS0WJUxJYd_Koprkj7Wt84N5F4-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/New%2BProject.jpg" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“But Jacob stayed behind by himself, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak.” </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">— Gen. 32:24 MSG</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The image looking back at me from the mirror was not my typical one. My newly dyed ombré hair was pulled up high and tight into a ponytail; I could see the grey ends sticking out behind one shoulder. I was wearing a slightly emo, black fitted dress shirt. My mouth was pinched shut, and dark circles loomed under my eyes. There was a dull, hard expression in my gaze, and the overall look as I stared back at myself gave a rather specific impression.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"You could be a bitch."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The sentence formed itself in my mind unbidden. It wasn’t an accusation, or even a condemnation. It was a suggestion. I felt the iciness of it claw its way up out of a cold, dark space in my heart; a defensive thought that wanted to snuff out any kindness or empathy left in me. My mirrored image confirmed it: I looked like I could definitely pull off that B-word.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">To be honest, it was tempting. For a second I really wanted to be a terrible person, to lock my heart away and be someone who couldn’t care less about the feelings of others, and only seek to please myself. To be my own priority, and hang everyone else—just cut them out of my life, and tell them exactly why and what I think of them. To be as mean and cruel as I could possibly be (and boy, I could be). Make phone calls or write letters and let them know what I truly felt, not just the things that were right or acceptable like I always did. I wanted—for a moment—to not be myself; to be ugly and poisonous, even if only to keep my broken heart safe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’d been a year of wrestling with God, wrestling with people, and wrestling with myself. But mostly wrestling with God. There were tough questions I needed answers for, and I wasn’t getting any. There were deeply scarring experiences from people that had left me feeling so busted inside that all I could do was take one step at a time; gingerly, hoping I wouldn’t fall through the ice and drown in my own grief and confusion. Even still, I spent months with my face barely breaking the surface of all my pain and questions to catch a breath, and God felt very, very unkind. I was angry with Him, though I cried to Him, and I asked “why” of Him a lot. Many times I felt like God had my thrashing, scrabbling arms and legs pinned, and He was pushing me face into the ground, crushing me; my sweat and tears mingling with bruises and blood as I moaned and struggled beneath the weight of what I thought to be Him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve never been able to understand why when tragedy strikes, some Christians’ first (or eventual) response is to blame God and walk away from Him; as though He were refundable for not serving them the way they expected Him to. I’ve inwardly scoffed at the notion that being a Christian insulates us from a wicked world out to destroy us. Part of me still does. It’s always seemed kind of stupid to me that one would blame God for the way people have treated them. It’s not God’s fault people can be evil. It’s people’s fault. God Himself promised we would have tribulation in this world. However He also promised us wisdom and discernment if we seek Him. It was this last promise that caused my wrestling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">See, it’s one thing to be blindsided by someone’s wickedness or a tragedy. It is completely another to strive to be obedient in following in Christ’s footsteps, and discover despite your best efforts, you get deceived, used, and abused. To come face to face with the fact that you are not as wise as you thought, or as discerning as you believed, or that God didn’t give you a head’s up earlier of. The sudden realisation that God has seemingly hung you out to dry is like hitting a brick wall at 100mph. So while others may question God by saying, “if you’re so good, why was this person wicked towards me?” I, on the other hand, was questioning, “If you’re so good, why didn’t you show me the person's wickedness?” I felt my blindness was my problem, and I wondered why God hadn’t helped me see. It’s not my fault people are bad, but I sure as heck believed it was my fault for not recognising it, and it felt like God had let me down. <i>Where was the wisdom You promised me? Where was Your insight and discernment when my compassion was being used for a dirty dishrag and my selfless heart was being chewed and used up? Am I that naive and stupid?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So you see why I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror dressed in black wishing I could turn into an ugly witch who could spit poison. If my softness toward God meant I could be exploited by hard-hearted people, I would much rather protect my heart by being cruel to everyone. Anything was better than the shame of being fresh meat for predators. I was wrestling with the way God had made me; cursing the fact I had this heart that longed to chase down every lost sheep and love them into Christ. I detested the way I strived to find the best in others, and loathed how self-sacrifice came so naturally to me. I didn’t want to be fooled again by my “good heart”. Compassion was as blinding as infatuation, and empathy could fool you into believing a wolf was a lamb. I regretted the love God had seemingly allowed me to waste. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But under all the regret, self-doubt, and frustration with God, self and people was a singular, deep, wounded question: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“If God loves me, why did He let me fail?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Indeed, if love covers a multitude of sins and truth sets people free, how come all my love and truth had apparently failed? This question clouded my vision to the point where hope seemed a fruitless endeavour. If God could love me and YET, let me fail, why hope? If I couldn’t trust God’s love to give me the wisdom and discernment and the truth about my life and the lives of others that I so desperately needed; if He was going to let me fall, how could He love me? Does love let people fail? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Recently I was struck afresh by the first lines of the popular song, “Oceans”, which I have heard a million times:</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You call me out upon the waters / t</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">he great unknown / w</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">here feet may fail</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Where feet may fail… Where feet may fail…”</i> The phrase echoed and bounced around in my mind. Could God call us to a place where we will fail? While I don’t believe God tempts us with evil or sets us up to fall, what if the trials we experience are a result of us walking out to where God has called us to be? Are there lessons along this road where, though it may come to a dead end, I’ll be stronger (and perhaps wiser) for? I wrestled too, with this tension of God being for us and not against us, but also, living in a world where God can use everything for our good and His purpose. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Could it be I was meant to both love people AND be hurt by them? Could it be I was called out upon the waters of trial and sorrow for my good? Could my failure simply be a place for God’s strength to come through? Was I fighting against something that could be teaching me instead? The frenzied questioning, wrestling, lack of sleep, pining for answers; what if I submitted to—made peace with—my failure, and surrendered that failure to Christ? Not to try and insulate myself from future hurts, but to stay soft and discerning of God’s voice, even while walking the paths my feet had failed me on. What if the failure of my feet had no bearing on God’s good path for me?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For some unknown reason, God has given me a connection with a songwriting artist whose music ministers to my heart on a very vulnerable level. Occasionally they’ll send me a text with something they’re working on, or I’ll design a lyric poster for them. Randomly, I got a text from them a few weeks ago sharing one of their favourite poems with me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It came into my mind that you might appreciate it if you have never read it before,” they said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was called <i>“The Man Watching” </i>by Maria Rilke, and I felt something stir deep within me as I read the verses:</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What we choose to fight is so tiny!</span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What fights with us is so great! </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If only we would let ourselves be dominated </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">as things do by some immense storm, </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">we would become strong too, and not need names.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When we win it’s with small things, </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and the triumph itself makes us small. </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What is extraordinary and eternal </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">does not want to be bent by us. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I mean the Angel who appeared</span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">when the wrestlers’ sinews </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">grew long like metal strings, </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">he felt them under his fingers </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">like chords of deep music.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whoever was beaten by this Angel </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">(who often simply declined the fight) </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">went away proud and strengthened </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and great from that harsh hand,</span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">that kneaded him as if to change his shape. </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Winning does not tempt that man. </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">by constantly greater beings.</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Submission to something greater… Submitting to the wrestle… As I read, an image sprang to mind of a tree choosing not to fight against the storms and the wind and the rain; how it stays rooted to its source, and allows itself to sway and be bent and twisted by the howling winds, yet at the end of it all, remains standing. Scarred, bruised, but alive… still standing. That line, <i>“This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings”.</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Isn’t to grow my greatest passion? Don’t I want to become that tree planted by the living waters, who bears fruit in season and whose leaves never dry up? Yet the tree only grows by being defeated—ever surrendered to the overwhelming greatness of God that is always present, no matter the trial it faces. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My thoughts return to the story of Jacob as he wrestled with the Angel of God. How desperate he must have been for answers, for mercy, for the assurance that something good was in store for him; something to hope for. What were the thoughts going through his mind as he locked arms with the Almighty, I wonder? His request leads me to believe that they were much the same as my own thoughts: Please. Bless me. Be kind to me. Don’t treat me as I deserve.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think of how God answered Jacob; in His extreme kindness (yes, I must tell myself: God is still kind), God did bless Jacob. He gave him what he asked for. Yet despite receiving the blessing he wrestled God for all night long, the only thought in his mind come morning was, “I have seen God, and lived.” It would seem that seeing God’s face was enough to end the wrestling. It’s not so much about seeing the blessing I think I need, but rather seeing the face of kindness shining upon me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe if I choose to look upon God’s face, instead of burying my face in the fight, His kindness will overwhelm me. Perhaps that is the true wrestle: fighting to see the goodness of God in all things. I’m grateful that God, being Divine, graciously allows me to humanly strive with Him; that I and my questions are not too much for His grace, and that even in the wrestling, His fingers caress my soul. He feels my struggles, and He tells me they are not wasted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For out of them, He makes music. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">-</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“When Jacob wrestled with the angel and won, he cried and asked for his blessing. Later, God met with him at Bethel and spoke with him there. It was the Lord God All-Powerful; the Lord is his great name. You must return to your God; love him, do what is just, and always trust in him as your God.”<br /><b>— Hosea 12:4-6 NCV</b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“The central reality for Christians is the personal, unalterable, persevering commitment God makes to us. [It’s] the reason Christians can look back over a long life crisscrossed with cruelties, unannounced tragedies, unexpected setbacks, sufferings, disappointments, depressions—look back across all that and see it as a road of blessing, and make a song out of what we see.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>— Eugene Peterson</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Further Listening:</b><br />
<i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XWORPuAuJmc">New Song, Jason Gray</a></i></div>
Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-80540139420484363782019-09-16T23:36:00.001+10:002019-09-16T23:36:51.232+10:00The Real Knife<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yZ-bm-0lY5g/XX-L62DP_MI/AAAAAAAAZow/FooVUxkQHKYCuXGWgicpo1AU9WB_aElCACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/knife.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="631" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yZ-bm-0lY5g/XX-L62DP_MI/AAAAAAAAZow/FooVUxkQHKYCuXGWgicpo1AU9WB_aElCACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/knife.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He was dripping with his own blood. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The sight made me want to recoil and shield my gaze, but instead I shuddered, swallowed hard and tried to focus on his eyes; the only part of him I could be sure was uninjured.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Except the anger and scorn I saw reflected there was almost as painful to see as his rent flesh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You don’t have to do this,” I began hoarsely. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I deserve it,” he shot back. “I should’ve known better, shown more self-control; I was stupid to do what I did,” as he spoke, he slowly drew the knife in his right hand across his left arm, red liquid welling up from the path it traced, joining a dozen other similar scars.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“And this is helping?” I winced. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“No one willingly gives themselves to folly! I should’ve been more mature than that; instead I acted like a complete idiot,” he dug his fingers into his face with more malice than anguish; fingernails scraping across his skin, gouging angry lines into his flesh. “Only a fool would make the same mistake so many times: I deserve this.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“But what good is it doing?!” I cried, “You’re only making things worse! How can responding this way possibly change what you’ve done?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Maybe if I punish myself hard enough I will change; maybe if l burn into my memory how wrong I was, I will never fail like that again. At the very least, if I can’t stand to see how utterly flawed and broken I truly am, I will make sure no one else has to.” With that, he plunged the knife deep into the flesh of his shoulder, and blood spurted; splattering across my face. I stifled a scream, recoiling; my heart both hammered and ached within my chest. I couldn’t keep watching. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You’re killing yourself!” My voice cracked. “You’re killing any chance you have of healing. You’ve said yourself how important your words are, yet here you are, using them for merciless torture against your own soul! What of kindness? What of grace?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I don’t deserve kindness,” he rasped through gritted teeth. “I keep failing to learn, when I know the truth; when I know better—grace is for those who change, not for those who fail to,” he slowly twisted the blade, a red stain spreading out across his shirt. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Torn, I reached out and grabbed his hand away from the knife handle. “Don’t—!” I gasped. “Don’t you see there’s a better way?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His eyes welled with sudden tears. “No, I don’t see,” he whispered hoarsely. “I know no other way to cope with the pain; the pain of knowing what I should be, and the pain of knowing I’ll never be him.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My trembling hands clutched his, blood and salt mingling as the tears gushed down my face. “Friend, give it to me,” I entreated, “I will carry your pain. Let the words carry the pain out of your mouth to me, I will hear you; surrender your guilt and your shame, Wisdom will hear your prayer. She will make your burden light. That is the higher way, not this,” I rubbed my hand across his arm gently, mindful of the gaping wounds.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“No!” He jerked backward suddenly as though he’d been stung. “I can’t. I won’t let the depths of my depravity be seen… you’ve already seen too much…” It was only then I noticed him reaching to withdraw a trembling hand from his pocket; light glinting off a pistol.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“What are you doing?!” I screeched. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Removing the problem. I will fix this; fix my sin—” He raised his hand to his head. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“NO—”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I clenched my eyes shut involuntarily as the gunshot echoed around me, sickening me to my core. As the sound dissipated I realised I was still holding my breath; when in the growing silence a sudden cry made me start, and I reopened my eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A body lay on the ground, blood rapidly pooling beneath it, but it wasn’t him. He was standing in the same place, the pistol smoking in his hand as he gazed in shock upon the still form at his feet. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“He—He jumped in front of it,” He stammered. “He ap-ppeared out of nowhere a-a-and took the bullet for me,”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I looked upon the scene, suddenly calm. “Yes,” was all I could reply.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“But—why?” He got angry then. “Why would someone do that? I was going to rid the earth of my sin! I was going to end my suffering; cease being the thorn in everyone’s side. I’d found the way, and now He’s ruined everything! Did He even know what kind of a man he wasted His life on?!” He beat the palm of his hand to his forehead, his very being radiating his anguish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It wasn’t the way,” I murmured gently. “<i>He</i> is the Way.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“What?” He barked at me shortly. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“He is the only way to be saved from yourself,” I said simply. “The unbearable failure you carry, the depth of the darkness you feel, all your hopelessness and desperation for change; He took it all in that bullet meant for you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Glassy-eyed, trembling, blood-soaked, he stood staring at me; hand still gripping the pistol.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You can only be free of your failure when you let Him take it; when you face it in His face… when you are brave enough to surrender.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He looked down at the face of His saviour, pale with death, blood darkening on the ground. It was then he quietly began to sob. “I failed,” he cried, brokenly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I know…” I whispered. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“<i>Ughhnn</i>…” He groaned deeply, coughing out the words as if it were ripping the air from his lungs. “I’ve murdered… I’ve sinned…” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His trembling hand finally lost grip on the pistol and it clattered to the ground, his knees following shortly behind as he knelt by the body. His breath came in rasps. “Forgive me…”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You’re already forgiven, dear one.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A knife was still protruding from the flesh of his shoulder. I tenderly reached down and removed it. He doubled over; groaning, sobbing. The pain seemed to finally register. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I don’t want to fail again…” he gasped. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I smiled. “You will,” I answered softly. “But it will not be the end. You will survive the shame. You will have the courage to look your failure in the eye, and forgive.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His face crumpled. “Oh, it hurts!” He moaned. “It hurts worse than my own wounds to let Him take them.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I will carry the pain for you,” I murmured compassionately. “I will be there, and you will be okay.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As he fell sobbing into my embrace, finally surrendered, I watched slow tendrils of healing begin to flow beneath his skin; mending the bleeding gashes and cleaning away the blood. The body next to him began to glow where it lay, the stain of blood evaporating along with his wounds. Within a few moments, he gave a great sigh, and a cloud lifted: I, the Spirit, and the Body of the Son come alive again with it. I smiled at the One who had given His life. He smiled back, and I noticed his scarred flesh; scars He would never lose. Only I knew what the cost had been. We both knew that salvation had come to the man, and he would never be the same. The sacrifice had been worth it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From our vantage point in the spirit realm, no human eyes had seen the blood, the wounds, nor the life he received from the One who’d so willingly laid it down. For it was not a physical knife that had wrought such bloody abuse upon his soul.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was his sin.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">His own words. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“He himself bore our sins in his body… that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.”</i> — <b>1 Peter 2:24 </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Sharp words cut like a sword, but words of wisdom heal.”</i> —<b> Proverbs 12:18</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Further Listening:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DtkFpfsQ_8g">"Fool With a Fancy Guitar", Andrew Peterson</a></span><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOFoVmFOO6I"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Worst Parts", Eric Peters</span></a><br />
<br />Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-75107529006354766302019-07-10T22:03:00.001+10:002019-07-10T22:03:35.583+10:00Becoming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Look into the mirror, what do I see? All the imperfections that define me." — Unspoken</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I used to think once I was a grown up I would have answers to things. That being adult would magically grant me the wisdom to understand people and circumstances, and give me the ability to know exactly what to do. I thought I would know exactly who I was, and exactly how to live. It was a fantasy. So far I’ve found becoming an adult is a lesson in unlearning childish expectations and unravelling lies I subconsciously picked up along the way. In short, discovering (and becoming) who I truly am. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let’s face it, who can really know themselves? Both Job and Jeremiah confessed their inability. “I do not know myself,” Job 9:21 admits, while Jeremiah 17:9 ominously states, “the heart is deceitful above all things, who can know it?” Scripture aside, a poll on Facebook asking people how they would answer the question: <b>“who are you when you aren’t doing anything and/or when no one needs you?”</b> quickly showed me that either a) we’d rather joke about the concept to cover up the fact we don’t know or b) give answers that lack a deep level of confidence and certainty. And whilst I would never mean to say our actions are completely divorced from our identities, I cannot assume that our sole value is derived from our deeds. Which begs the question: who are we without them? Or, if we are doing them, why? In what ways do our identities motivate our actions?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Much of what I do has come from accumulated patterns over the years. Though my identity may be more than merely my habits, I am coming to recognise some things that have become part of my modus operandi simply because of the experiences I’ve processed through an acquired perspective. I believe—in a way—we are all born with a particular set of blinders which keeps us from seeing ourselves clearly. It’s why we can empathise with a bad character in a movie if we understand his backstory, and how we hate him if we only see him painted as a villain. Likewise, <b>we know our own backstories so well that we over-empathise to the point we are blind to our true motives.</b> Yet God’s truth in Proverbs says “the spirit of a man is the lamp of the Lord, searching all the inner depths of the heart”, and lately I have been clumsily allowing the Holy Spirit within me to illuminate those dark areas of my soul that humanly I cannot understand. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It is so easy for me to feel useless, even worthless when I am not meeting people’s needs. It is so innate for me to run towards loving people, giving them everything they desire that is within my power to give. My goal in life is to love others just as Christ loves me, <b>Yet even within that seemingly selfless desire, I can find selfishness. </b>In being needed, I feel loved. Therefore if I'm not careful, loving others can be scratching an itch, and subconsciously drawing a sense of identity from my deeds of loving you. The realisation is sickening to me; that I could somehow be using God’s beautiful command to shore up my own ego. Just as Westley’s statement of “as you wish” from The Princess Bride was his confession of love, so I can sell myself for a proverbial bowl of soup—pleasing your every whim in the desperate hope I am loved in return. Or as in the tale of the Giving Tree, where every sacrifice it made on behalf of the boy made it “happy”, so my love can take on a martyr-like quality that is neither asked for, nor honestly extended. <b>Love given in the hopes of love in return is not real love.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"I know the golden rule, treat another like you want to be treated too, but lately I've been hating on myself, it's true: beat up my heart 'til it's black and blue."</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even in the times I do extend my love selflessly, experiences of over-investing in a person to the point where the loss of that investment feels like losing a limb will leave me disillusioned. I am meant to love like Christ. To give of myself. To pour myself out for another. How can I tell the difference between my selfish motives to be seen, accepted and loved in return, and the pure, Christlike love I’m meant to be giving? There have been so many times I have poured out my time and my heart for the sake of another, only to wind up used, empty, and alone. The last such experience gave me a firmer resolve: I will never do this again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which leads to the breakdown of who I am: <b>is this who I am?</b> Am I doomed to be a sucker for the rest of my life, where people use me and abuse me by taking advantage of me, where I ceaselessly and tirelessly overextend myself only to be abandoned, left to pick up the pieces of my heart, and then repeat the pattern over again? No. <b>I have a choice.</b> One of the most empowering things in this life is our ability to choose. Two happenstances may occur to two different people yet it will refine one, and destroy the other, the only difference being the choices they made. So, I resolve to make better choices, against what my natural inclination might be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The only trouble is, the pendulum can never seem to land in the middle. When that hurt pierced my soul and ripped a gaping hole in the most vulnerable part of my heart, steel entered my veins. Like frost slowly creeping up the window panes, I could feel walls (that had both risen and fallen in times past) slowly being built up around my heart. It would not happen again. I would not be so foolish. I would be wise, and be discerning. I would not just toss my heart to anyone who looked like they needed loving. I would wait to be asked. Wait to be invited in. Wait to be needed, and then be careful before I said “yes” to anything. I was pounding out firm boundaries that had never really existed before, and the chill seeping through the cracks of my broken heart probably disturbed or disgruntled some people who were used to my benevolence. I became emotionally distant, standing behind the walls I thought could keep me safe. Not endeavouring to reach out to people in my normal, friendly, welcoming way. I justified it: “I’m being wise, being discerning; not throwing my pearl before swine. I’m learning from my mistakes.” Which I was, but perhaps not the lessons God intended.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Normal conversation seems to get harder; I try to hold my tongue 'cause it's been getting sharper. I'd open up the gate but I can't find the key, maybe I'm afraid, afraid of what You'll see."</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve been hyper aware of guarding my heart since I was 16, and—in recent years—being careful with whom I shared my vulnerability. The trouble is, I freely gave away my vulnerability without even knowing it. How did I do that? What is it that truly makes us feel vulnerable? What is vulnerability? What is that deepest, core part of our heart? I’d always thought it was a universal definition: our most personal stories, our dreams, hopes, secrets, past experiences, regrets or pains. But in an epiphany during a conversation with a friend, it dawned on me what my vulnerability is: meeting needs. How painfully obvious that must be to the people who know me, yet it's something I was completely blind to. When I am meeting someone’s need, being a listener, counsellor, comforter, teacher, encourager, challenger, or friend, I am giving of the most vulnerable part of myself. I LOVE to be needed! It is my most personal trait. When I am meeting a need, I am giving you the most valuable and cherished part of me. It’s not just a chore, or a duty. It’s my lifeblood, my greatest virtue, my most highly-prized gift. <b>Serving you is the best part of me.</b> It’s probably why the concept of not doing and simply being is daunting to me: <b>how will God love me if I’m not useful to Him? </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"How can I love, can I love, can I love You if I can't even love myself? I try to hide that I don't feel worthy, but the truth it will always tell."</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Isn’t it ironic that the finished work of Jesus Christ on the cross trumps all of my “doings”, yet I still feel like I must add to it? I was recently made aware of Hebrews 10:18 which states that where there is forgiveness of sins, there is no longer need for sacrifice. Yet here I am: still throwing my heart to the wolves and thinking I appease God. <b>Sacrificing myself on the altar of loving people was never God's requirement of me.</b> Even in the Old Testament God said that to obey is better than sacrifice. “To love the Lord my God with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind, and all my strength and to love my neighbour as myself.” I disobey half of the greatest commandment when I fail to love myself, and it certainly isn’t loving to become a slave of meeting needs I was never able to satisfy in the first place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because I can’t. <b>I am literally incapable of meeting the needs I recognise in others.</b> Maybe it’s my ego again, but there’s always this faint hope that I can do it. That I can save a life. Rescue a heart. Redeem a soul. While I know we all have a part to play in reaching the lost, there is a difference between humbly presenting a truth when it’s asked for, and a saviour complex. Though my love may come from the purest motives at times, the fact remains that my love alone is not enough. The desire to meet needs only Jesus can meet must itself, too, be surrendered. My heart—AND it’s desires—must bow before its Maker. I may recognise a genuine need in a person, but it’s not in my power to meet it. And when that desire tries to pull my heart into the fray, I must learn to lead that desire—and whatever its motives are for being found worthy of love in return—to the feet of Jesus. It’s not about me. It’s about Christ. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I guess that’s where I so often lose focus on this journey of becoming who I’m meant to be. Everything I need is found in Him. Everything you need is found in Him. <b>When I take my eyes off Him, His love ceases to be an overflow in my life, and instead I become a beggar baiting my hook with my human love in order to catch yours to feed my starving identity. </b>What a poor way to live—enslaved to the pursuit of my own transformation without Christ's empowerment. Sometimes I can become my own idol without realising it, and I don’t want to be that person. I cannot find my satisfaction in loving you without first being loved myself, and I cannot love myself on my own. Though it may mean I need to withdraw from time to time to re-calibrate myself and focus on Who He is to be filled again, <b>it’s better that I use my boundaries to protect my connection to Christ rather than to defend my heart against you.</b> I’ve seen glimpses of what it means to overflow with the love only God can give. It’s a love that has empowered me to stay true in the face of many lies, great deceit, betrayal, abusiveness and pain. Recognising however when I’m nearing empty has not been something I have consciously paid attention to. Another lesson to learn. </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"What you carry always shows, what you bury it still grows. How can I love, can I love, can I love You if I can't even love myself?"</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For someone who can know seemingly telepathically the needs of others, I've discovered I'm woefully out of touch with my own. I can swallow a gut full before I even notice I'm drowning under a wave of repressed needs that I convinced myself I didn't have. <b>Part of my becoming is unbecoming the strong one. </b>It's inexplicable the relief that is often chased down by shame when I dare to utter to another soul, "I can't do this," or "I need help." So I've started trying to say it. The words feel unfamiliar on my tongue, but if no one can do this life alone, that includes me. Allowing myself to be weak in God's hands and the eyes of my people is a new practise, but if it's all about Him and not about me, what have I to be afraid of? If I cannot bring my needs to the One who is more than enough, how can I tell you He will meet yours? He loves me for who I am, not for what I do for Him. Can I live like I believe that? It's one thing to preach, entirely another to practise what one preaches. I'm so thankful that as I stumble through this process, grace covers my tracks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve realised that there is often a quiet, hidden third option I ignore. As I’m growing, I want to pay attention to it more. I don’t have to be an ingratiating, needy, people-pleasing, sucker. I also don’t have to be a cold, distant, cynical cow.<b> I can be a tenderhearted, humble, submitted, obedient daughter.</b> While at a conference in Yass this year we had an exercise of listening to what the Holy Spirit was saying to us. We wrote down the lies or hindrances we believed were holding us back, and on the flip side, wrote down what we believed God's answer to us was. I wrote: “I am critical and cynical” (I didn’t add: cold, distant, hurt, distrusting, defensive, and heartless, but I was thinking it). As I reached this point on the answers, I felt God whisper: <b>“you have eyes of compassion, and a heart for My truth. I will teach you how to use both.”</b> It all starts with Him. He comes first. He is the answer to every question. I can’t use compassion, nor truth if I don’t first know Him. I don’t think I would end up in half the messes I make for myself if my first thought was always, “what does the Lord require of me?” And then obeyed. It’s really way simpler than lying awake every night torturing myself with over-analysing everything, wondering “what if” and “if only”, hashing out every possible hypothetical outcome to difficult situations, and regretting my every past decision because of the pain I can’t see through.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"I need you to pray for me, need you to stay here with me; though I've pushed you away from me, don't turn away from me."</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, by grace alone, I am becoming. I've lost count of how many people I have ever been, but praise God that He has loved every one of them. I’m not becoming who I was destined to be due to my own efforts (contrary to my own opinion), and I'm learning to be okay with the time it takes; not to berate myself for not arriving yet. In the profound words of a new friend, “thinking I know the state of my own soul’s affairs better than He… now THAT is pride.” It doesn’t start with me, because it’s not about me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s not about how well I love, <b>but how well He loves me. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s not about my meeting other people’s needs, <b>but about Christ meeting mine AND their needs. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>It’s about me pointing to Christ as the source</b>, not pridefully believing I am the source, so that I can gain some kind of credit or appreciation for loving you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>It’s about finding my identity in Him</b>, not in the love you give me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s about being <b>obedient</b> when He calls me to vulnerability, and being obedient when He doesn’t. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s all about <b>Him</b>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I am becoming more like Him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Further listening: </b></span><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nNqAHf3_OhU"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Order, Disorder, Reorder", Jason Gray</span></a><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVHq8z3r1_g"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Becoming", Jason Gray</span></a><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LvNKVojJbC8"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Can't Even Love Myself", Unspoken</span></a><br />
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Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-10469969796881420552019-04-08T23:34:00.000+10:002019-04-08T23:34:28.267+10:00When Words Fail<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"There is a time to mourn in silence, but justice aches to hear you speak." — John Lucas</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I talk a lot. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It comes naturally. I talked all the time as a child. As the oldest, even for the brief period of time I was an only child, I could talk the leg off a chair. I talked to myself. I read books out loud to the cat (I couldn’t read). As I got older I’m sure I pestered prospective friends with my talkativeness. I’m sure I still pester long-standing friends to this day. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In homeschool circles, the verse about having a “meek and quiet spirit” was idolized as the epitome of the perfect woman, and so I would often have this sense of guilt or dread after leaving a homeschool event because I was quite frequently the very opposite of this verse. I was boisterous and loud. Everything had a funny side (which I still find loudly hilarious), but a lot of people didn’t get my sense of humour. Most probably still don’t. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I fell in love with writing all the words that I wished I could speak very early on. When that progressed to chatrooms, I fell in love with suddenly looking so much more articulate than I was in “real life”. I almost sounded like I knew what I was talking about when I was given a keyboard (plus my 100WPM typing speed). I spent so much time talking with friends online that I was no surprise to them when we finally met in person. I was just as talkative.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As a lover of writing, I tried to wrap words around everything. I wrote short stories, attempted novels, loved poems and six-word stories. As time progressed, I grew to love curating my thoughts on my blog through lengthy articles expounding on this or that topic, or counselling sessions with friends where I would burrow to the heart of a matter and see them find enlightenment. That was always my favourite part; problem solving for others. Spinning words into the perfect web to capture thoughts and pin down meanings. When I think about how the Word of God is living and active, I get a sense of that aliveness whenever I actively use words for the good of others. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Until lately. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Over the years, I have talked so much. I have used so many words, pouring them endlessly into other people’s hearts in the hope of providing enough anchor points for them to triangulate the truth off. I’ve used words like a blanket to wrap around the wounded, or as bandages to stop the bleeding. I’ve used words like a scalpel to peel back the skin and slice close to the bone of painful issues. I’ve used words to stitch up torn open souls, and to ease troubled minds. I’ve used words as lenses to view circumstances and scenarios from different angles and points of views in order for them to be better understood. In some cases, I’ve seen fruit from my extensive efforts through the sharing of words, but most others, I’ve seen the same patterns repeating over and over again; my words becoming meaningless background noise for the opening of the same wounds I tried to patch, the same brokenness I tried to mend. And I’m tired. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">These days when I think of opening my mouth, I feel a welling sense of despair in my soul. “What is the point? Why waste your time? What difference does it make?” and I feel the words inside me sink back beneath the surface and disappear into the depths of my soul. Coming to terms with the fact that I am incapable of making changes or fixing people on my own has made me recognise (rightly or wrongly) how meaningless my words truly are. They are not the Living Word of Truth. They may communicate it, but even that communication is pointless if the heart is not ready to receive. I cannot fabricate revelation for a person. I cannot change a heart. Only God can do that. So what’s the point of saying anything? What use could my words have? </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Part of my mind is telling me it’s a lie from the enemy to keep me silent. Those whispers that say, “you’re wasting your time, you’re making no difference, ash and dust, that’s all your words are” do sound a lot like lies, but I can’t help but wonder if they’re true. Has everything I’ve spoken and shared; the pouring out of my heart and soul to people in the form of words truly been wasted? If there is nothing to show for all I’ve given, have I been casting my pearls before swine, or is to even call my words “pearls” a stretch? I always thought words were powerful, but now I’m not so sure. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve been lied to and deceived by people so many times in my life. They used words. I hear people’s words now and am discouraged that my first response is usually doubt. How can I believe what you’re saying, when I have been spun so many lies so convincingly over time? When people can talk the talk so effectively yet be walking a walk completely different, I can’t help but be skeptical. Are my words as worthless as yours, I wonder, even if I know mine are as true as I can be sure?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I know my words are not as powerful as God’s Word. I’ve never really thought so, but perhaps I conned myself into thinking that if I was speaking God’s truth it would be as effective as God’s Word itself. Just because I communicate truth however, does not mean it’s the truth that changes a heart. The vessel is not what it contains, it merely pours it out. Perhaps I had more faith in my pouring abilities than I did in the Truth I claimed to be containing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The irony, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, is that I am using words to articulate all of this. Though I may be quieter than usual on the outside, the words still exist. They swirl like a brooding cyclone in my mind, wreaking havoc upon me by headaches and poor sleep. Swirling words I’m still trying to grab and wrap around concepts that were never meant to be worked out mentally. <b>Mortal words will never fix spiritual problems.</b> I guess that’s why it’s easy to see what I have to say as worthless; my words will never be the Living Word. I can’t fix a broken heart, so why even try? What can my fruitless words do? </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But words still exist as a lifeblood for me. To line up the right letters into the right sentences; to translate my feelings and wrestlings into rows of words is cathartic for me. As if I release the pressure built up in my soul into a gushing torrent of writing; my pounding fingers upon the keyboard giving me blessed relief, as though bleeding out onto the page. I cannot fix anyone with my words, but I can express them for myself. Words may not help anyone else, but they help me. The Living Word may not choose to use my words to change a life, but I can still allow them to change mine. God’s loving arms reach out to me not only through His own words, but through the words I write. The words I sing. The words I read. The words I share. Maybe the releasing of words into the atmosphere has all been for me; that maybe, somewhere down the road they’ll all come back to me and whisper the truths I need to hear.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I need to believe my words amount to something. Anything. Yet, even when my words fail—and they <i>will </i>fail—my life is held together by truer words, spoken by the Almighty Word Himself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And maybe, if I am silent, I will get to hear Him speak. </span></span></div>
Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-32796666592389402162019-04-02T22:15:00.000+11:002019-04-04T10:28:01.369+11:00Thirsty Choice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fEkM3HcYK8Q/XKNAQcSOdnI/AAAAAAAAYgU/VLJ1l-Dw028-fkw71MNkUhySy6AsaBrBgCLcBGAs/s1600/desert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="631" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fEkM3HcYK8Q/XKNAQcSOdnI/AAAAAAAAYgU/VLJ1l-Dw028-fkw71MNkUhySy6AsaBrBgCLcBGAs/s1600/desert.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At least now the dying man looked better. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I found him, the desert had shown him the worst it had to offer. Bleeding and cracked lips, hair thick with sand, his face chafed, dark from dust and sweat, I had stumbled over him in the gathering shadows on my way to the spring. He became conscious enough to aid me in getting him to his feet, whereupon I was able to help him mount the camel I was leading. Slowly, we arrived at the small wadi before the dusk deepened into evening. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pulling him carefully down, I let him lie on a rug spread comfortably in a sandy hollow. I took a moment to gather a few sticks and light a quick fire by which to see. The man seemed to have slipped into a restless sleep, so as he dozed, I drew water from the well, and bathed his face and chapped hands, letting the water trickle through his hair and washing away some of the sand. His face no longer looked as dark and burnt as it had, and though his lips were still badly scarred, the blood had stopped flowing. Noticing his ragged clothing, I pulled a robe from my saddlebag. Knowing how cold the desert could get at night, it was a wonder he hadn’t already frozen to death with the bare threads he was wearing. Wrapping him up as well as I could while he was still unconscious, he was much more friendlier on the eye. However I knew it wasn’t his outward appearance that needed revitalising, it was the inside. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pulling a cup from my stash, I tipped the bucket I had drawn from the well to one side, letting the cold, clear water trickle into the smaller vessel. With one hand, I tenderly lifted the man’s head and with the other, held the cup to his lips. As the liquid entered his partially opened mouth, his eyes flew open and his gaze rested upon me instantly. With a choking spasm, his arm flew out and knocked the cup away from him and sent it spinning out of my hand; the precious water wasted upon the sand. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Let me alone!” He rasped. “I need no one’s help.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My anger flamed. “You were dying out there!” I spat. “When was the last time you had a drink?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’ll drink when I choose to!” The man shot back, ignoring the question. “I didn’t ask you for water!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With that, he clumsily attempted to rise to his feet. I held him back. “You are in no shape to go anywhere,” I said firmly. “Can’t you see you need help?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I don’t want your help!” I ducked his flailing arm, and pinned it to the rug he had lain quite peacefully upon just moments before. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“You need to drink.” My tone brooked no argument. With his one arm pinned under my hand, I reached for the cup and dunked it in the bucket, bringing it full again to his lips. I was surprised by his strength for someone so clearly weakened. As I held the cup to his mouth, water spilling down his chest, he clenched his teeth tightly, lips sealed against the life-giving liquid I was desperate to administer. He began to thrash beneath me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Drink, you fool!” I gasped, struggling. “Drink, or you will surely die!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Still he refused. In fact, he held his lips so tight that the cracks reopened, and blood was coursing from the wounds, mingling with the water as it was shaken from my unsteady hand. With great effort, he managed to roll over and pull himself from my grip, and I fell against the ground in the place he had been, cup slamming into the sand next to me; shattering into pieces. My stunned gaze lingered on it for a while, until I realise the man had left my small camp, stumbling off into the darkness; away from the campfire light, and the well.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Wait!” I cried, a note of desperation creeping into my voice. I could not have this man’s life on my conscience. Not when I had the means to keep him alive. “You won’t survive out there!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Quickly coming to my feet, I ran after him. In my fervent haste, I would’ve all but bodily picked him up as I approached, but a glint in the darkness made my feet falter a moment. A knife had appeared in his hand. I'd had no idea that it'd been hidden on his person anywhere.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Come near me,” his voice rasped in anger, “and I will kill you.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Why?” I cried. “I mean only to save your life!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I will save my own life, for it is mine. Not yours!” He growled and swiped at me with the dagger, and I stepped back hastily.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“This is the only well for miles. I know, for I too, was a seeker like yourself once.” My focus flicked briefly to the distant horizon fading into the deep black and purple of twilight; a horizon broken by hundreds of undulating sand dunes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“So you say, but I will find my own. If I don’t, I’d rather die than let it be known I owed my life to someone other than myself.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was then he turned, and disappeared suddenly into the black oblivion of the desert, the sound of his shuffling footsteps fading into the night. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I stood there watchfully a good while, listening to the silence long after his ragged breathing and the shifting sand beneath him ceased to be audible. My heart broke within me, and grief overflowed; in tears for this soul I did not even know. Words fail as to why it affected me so, but I will never forget the anguish I felt standing there in the desert, alone, weeping for the fact that someone in their pride could choose to keep searching the expanse of the desert for water after discovering its only well. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"Jesus stood and cried out, saying, 'If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water'."</i><br />(John 7:37-38)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"The Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says to the people, 'Come back and quietly trust in me. Then you will be strong and secure.' But you refuse to do it."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">(Isaiah 30:15)</span></div>
<br />Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-48422019771304266132019-02-12T17:01:00.000+11:002019-02-12T19:37:27.465+11:00The Lies We All Believe About Social Interaction (Debunked)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WF4Z5sHeo0I/XGJXtYzkk2I/AAAAAAAAYY4/HZGrea0DpYg6d0nGVDLvH7hDAtxglr_wgCLcBGAs/s1600/social.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="631" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WF4Z5sHeo0I/XGJXtYzkk2I/AAAAAAAAYY4/HZGrea0DpYg6d0nGVDLvH7hDAtxglr_wgCLcBGAs/s1600/social.jpg" /></a></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Different faces, different fears / Different failures lead us here / Show us how we're all the same." — Tenth Avenue North</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love throwing parties.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">From birthdays to hangouts of no greater purpose than to just chill and play board-games, I love drawing people together. Not much brings me greater joy than filling a house with friends and family and seeing that everyone is well fed, has a full cup of tea or coffee, and are partaking in blessed fellowship: no one left out, no one lonely, the sweet hum of voices a testament of the comforting truth that everyone belongs. To be amongst people I love can make my heart want to burst with happiness. I circulate the room, joining conversations, meeting people’s needs, making them laugh, confiding in friends, or teaming up to best others in a game. As the night goes on, subdued conversation about the deeper things of life are punctuated by sleep-deprived laughter over the randomest things, and by the time everyone departs, we are already planning the next social event. There are so many adventures to be had, and beautiful people to have them with. I love being with people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet at the same time, <b>I can hate it.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In fact, I can dread throwing parties. Even though I may have a thriving relationship with every single person I invite, there is a selfish gremlin buried in my soul that just wants to curl up in bed and have no one but the cat for company. Maybe not even the cat. I frequently ask myself hours before an event: “Whose idea even was this?” The awkward moments when the first people arrive are a struggle (“What do I do with them? Do they want to sit down? Where? Should we play a game right away? Chat about nothing until everyone else turns up? Awkwardly stand in the kitchen and stare at the cupboards? Offer them tea or coffee, or is it too early before food? Snacks? How was your week, even though I saw you two days ago? Why am I sitting on the floor? How did I spill that on my shirt? Everyone thinks I’m a slob, I’m a terrible host when-can-this-be-over-Iamsodoneplzhelp”).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once everyone does turn up, the house is full of voices. LOUD voices, all mingling and cutting each other off and escalating to become its own obnoxious white noise that makes it difficult for me to think above. The sudden pressure of being a good host and responsible entertainer weighs down on me and I become preoccupied with wiping down counters and preparing snacks to give my hands something to do. The fear I am leaving someone out can make me randomly cut off some conversations in order to join others, but honestly I do that in part to opt out of deeper subject matter that my cowardly heart doesn’t want to get entangled in this early in the night. Small talk, on the flip side, doesn’t make things any easier. With my brain somehow checked out and at a loss as to landing on an appropriate topic, I make do with self-deprecating stories that will draw laughter from people, which hopefully eases the mild social tension.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As the night winds down, I find myself feeling calmer, yet at the same time, my tongue gets looser and I find myself saying things in my delirious tiredness that I probably shouldn’t say. I worry that I’m being too this or that, yet I also stress about making sure I’m being real, so that by the time everyone goes home, I feel like I probably overshared my heart and now one of those things I miscommunicated will come back to bite me later. I fall asleep thanking God it’s over, with my exhausted social tank reading well below empty.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">While this is an exaggeration of some of my worst attitudes and experiences, <b>it would be inauthentic of me to act like they never occur.</b> The reason why I share it is because I’ve realised that there are so many lies we believe about ourselves—and others—when it comes to social interactions precisely because we don’t share these experiences.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For example, what most people see and assume of me when I’m being social is that I am a natural extrovert. As I described in my first paragraph, they watch the way I interact with people, the way I laugh, how I am interested in others or make conversation and think that these interactions are effortless; that my extroversion connects readily with others and puts them at ease (as if being an extrovert is just some magical gift that causes people to like you and laugh at your jokes). This however is an inaccurate assumption. <b>The truth is that I am quite an introvert. </b>I have always hated—and still do—the first moments of arriving at a party where I don’t know everyone. I detest small talk. I feel awkward and out of place. If there is someone there I do know, I feel too clingy. I want to approach new people, but am often afraid to open up a conversation and I can’t even really tell you why (it’s not like people bite; you’re not saying “Hi, what’s your name?” to a shark). If possible, I will even ask others to order my food for me because I hate being put on the spot talking to a stranger about what I want. Though I have improved in many of these areas, I’d be lying if I didn’t say it still wasn’t often a largely invisible struggle I deal with.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So why do my actions appear to be so far removed from what’s going on inside me, you ask? I credit much of my social adeptness to the way I was raised. I was told to always look people in the eye when you speak to them. To shake hands firmly. To be interested in the other person by asking good questions. To read body language. To discern the difference between intelligent conversation and drivel (learnt the hard way by trial and error, let me tell you). To do what was difficult because it was right (like apologising for speaking said drivel and asking forgiveness). To practise thoughtfulness and hospitality. To listen well. To be patient. To be compassionate. To show genuine interest. While these many valuable lessons have served me well in my dealings with people, it does not mean that they all come easy. Far from it. <b>Most of these good habits are still difficult for me to practise.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which is exactly where it becomes easy to believe lies about ourselves and others:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I will never fit in the same way they do.”</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“If I were more like them/more popular/charming/charismatic, perhaps this would be easier.”</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m awkward and don’t belong. No one else feels this way.”</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m a social misfit because I don’t like being around people.”</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can never change, this is how it will always be.”</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m an introvert, which means I’ll never be able to interact with people in a healthy way.”</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m an extrovert, which means I’ll always overwhelm and annoy people.”</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m the only one who hates small talk.”</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I can never make friends.”</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The list could go on and on. But as someone who may be seen as one of the people who have social interaction nailed, <b>don’t be fooled. We don’t have it all together, and you don’t have it all wrong. </b>We are all people just trying to get along with one another; billions of us completely unique and different, yet at the core, desperate to be known, understood and loved in the same way. We all want to belong, and while there may be those who find socialising a piece of cake (or they just have a rad mask), most of us are fumbling our way through it the best we know how: putting up a flashy front and hoping to goodness no one discovers just what a fraud we are. So allow me to debunk some of those lies, and tell you the truth about yourself, along with some tips on how to better navigate soci<span style="font-family: inherit;">al situations:</span></span><br />
<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>You are not a failure. </b>I don’t care who told you; if it was your parents, your school frenemies, a girlfriend/boyfriend, or peer group. You aren’t a failure if you don’t feel like you fit in. Most of us don’t. We all know deep down our insecurities, quirks, imperfections and junk we carry. That knowledge can separate us from feeling like we belong. But don’t fret! You may not see it, but the next person is just as jacked up as you are. You are not a failure if you struggle, and you’re not a failure if you struggle with people. You’re human. Just like the rest of us. Don't buy the lie that being socially adept is the be all, end all. You are more than your social skills.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>You are allowed to be—and laugh at!—yourself. </b>In fact, the sooner you learn this, the happier you’ll be and the more success you’ll find in social interactions. Be yourself, and learn to laugh at yourself. Since we are all just as deeply flawed, learning to laugh at your flaws can give people the chance to laugh at their own. Being real about the ways we are imperfect, and the fact that that’s totally okay will take the pressure off those who have their people-pleasing masks in place, and they will feel free to let down their walls. Being yourself makes other people feel safe, which makes it easier to connect with them. It’s a win-win, because if some people don’t like you for who you really are, then they aren’t real friends. Go find some new ones who love you as you are!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>You can learn. </b>Just because social interaction can be exceedingly taxing and difficult, it doesn’t mean you’re incapable. Often in the very midst of social hangouts or spending time with heaps of people, I will go to the bathroom just to have a time out to refocus, breathe, and pray before re-entering the fray. Don’t believe the lie that good social skills are impossible for you. You CAN learn new skills and new ways to help you cope and interact with others better. Though it may never cease being difficult or challenging, it can become more effective. Give yourself grace, but don’t be afraid to show up and continue practising the messy art of peopleing. It’s worth it!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>You can choose your focus. </b>One of the biggest cripplers of successful social interaction is a preoccupation with self. My worst moments in social settings are when I am hyper-aware of how uncomfortable I am, or how much I don’t like the circumstance. However when I shift my focus to other people, things are often vastly different. If you want a challenging, but easy out, simply ask other people questions! “What do you do? How do you know [this] person? Where are you from? Where did you go to school? What are your hobbies? How do you spend your free time if you’re not working? What would you study if you could? Do you like music or movies? What would be your superpower? Do you have a favourite subject to debate?” You can even google icebreaker questions if need be. Honestly there is no better connection builder than genuine interest. Find a person’s favourite point of interest and then run with it, shooting as many questions as you can to exhaust the topic. Bonus, you never know what you could learn by listening well!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>You are not boring. </b>A lot of people believe that an inability to engage in small talk makes them a boring person. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Operating on a different plane of conversation does not make you boring! Along the same lines as focus, if you wait for other people to be interested in you, you will undoubtedly be disappointed. Give your interest to others first, and eventually you will get the chance to share from your own heart. Wherever you have picked up the lie that you are not interesting, you have nothing to say and you’re not enough, kick it out of your head. You have a voice, a story, and a point of view that is worthy to be heard. Don't base what you believe about yourself on small-minded people who can’t see you for who you are based on five minutes of awkward small-talk.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>You can be honest. </b>At the end of the day, tracking your way through the maze of social interactions can be a mixed bag of joy, exhaustion, fun, disappointment, insight, or end up leaving you with more questions and doubts than answers that buoy you with confidence. You don’t have to pretend that everything is fine all the time. You have the freedom to be honest about how you feel. One of the defining moments in the formation of one of my closest friends came when we were chatting at a party and I randomly admitted in the middle of the conversation, “Sorry can you repeat that? I just completely zoned out and didn’t hear a thing you said.” She appreciated my honesty so much that it led to a deeper conversation about being authentic with one another, and it added another layer to the trust we were building between us. Sometimes it pays to just be up-front with people: “I’m actually really tired and am having trouble paying attention. I’m sorry, I just don’t feel like people today, thankyou for being patient with me. I may not talk much tonight because I’m a bit out of it.” Let me say it again: <i>You. Are. Allowed. To. Be. Honest!</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>You are not alone. </b>Lastly, even if your attempts at connecting with people crash and burn with spectacular failure, don’t lose heart. You are not alone. Even Jesus who invested Himself into His friends with perfection and was the standard of social interaction was abandoned by those closest to Him in His greatest hour of need. While there will always be things about ourselves that the rest of the world simply won’t get, God does. God’s love for us is enough to cover the gaps left by our failures, and the failures of others. You don’t have to despair. Tomorrow is always a new day, and God’s mercies are there for you to guide you and grow you further than you were the day before. It is not the end. If you screwed up, do your best to make amends and learn from it, but don’t beat yourself up over it. We are all going to fail at this! It’s what we choose to do after we fail that matters. </span></li>
</ol>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is a song by Francesca Battistelli that is still timeless for me. The lyrics read: <i>“don’t pretend to be something that you’re not, living life afraid of getting caught; there is freedom found when we lay our secrets down at the cross. So bring your brokenness and I’ll bring mine ‘cause love can heal what hurt divides and mercy’s waiting on the other side, if we’re honest.”</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is me being honest.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As a result, I hope this gives you the freedom to be honest with yourself, and with others too. People are not half as scary as we make them out to be, and all too frequently we give them more power than they truly have. We don’t have to get this perfectly right. This is why we have Jesus. We’re all the same at the foot of the cross.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So next time you have to face a room full of people, think of me, and I’ll think of you. We’ve got this. The greatest offering we have to give is ourselves. As Christ did for us, so we can do for others. He is with us. There is nothing we cannot do.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let’s get out there and people together, shall we?</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Let Your love get inside our bones / May it deep within us grow / May we bring in the ones left outside." — Tenth Avenue North</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Further Listening:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f60gaoZ10aY">"We're All The Same", Tenth Avenue North</a></span><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ySa3Vu4FUW8"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"If We're Honest", Francesca Battistelli</span></a>Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-68715415821392389002018-11-19T14:25:00.003+11:002018-11-19T14:28:34.826+11:00You Have a Place at The Table<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3WycwviMYAo/W-4m9JMfmpI/AAAAAAAAYS0/ExOw5xGkp34UGb1JatR1Yrp3plbVAQrCwCLcBGAs/s1600/table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="631" height="304" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3WycwviMYAo/W-4m9JMfmpI/AAAAAAAAYS0/ExOw5xGkp34UGb1JatR1Yrp3plbVAQrCwCLcBGAs/s640/table.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It is not as we've seen, it is not as we've read, it is not as they've said. How we need to forget, we need to reset and be like children again. Are you hungry and have no money? You can sit at this table.” — Jess Ray, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8T2zPTpEiT8">“Too Good”</a></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our dining room table wasn’t always the central focus of our home. My Dad was away for work a lot when I was really young, so we didn’t share a lot of meals together. It was only when Dad started working from home that tea time was a lot earlier so we could eat together as a family before us kids went to bed. It became a tradition that—except for weekends—meals were always shared there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Memories before then are fuzzy now. The dining room table has come to hold many more vivid memories; ordinary quiet meals, extra chairs to accommodate friends and extended family, tense moments after particularly rough days where silence was heavy, nights where we lingered just to talk, or laugh until we couldn’t breathe, Saturday mornings wandering sleepily from our beds to join Mum and Dad where they sat reading the newspaper, countless birthday cakes, family discussions that didn’t exclude tears, small breaks throughout the day when you needed a moment of silence, or a place of ministry where Mum and Dad have had frequently counselled those with deep needs, including their own children.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The table really only had one rule: one must ask before leaving it. However, interestingly enough, no one ever needed to ask to pull up a chair and if one did, it was always met with a unanimous, undeniable, “Yes! Pull up a chair!” A request to join the table was almost considered a silly question. <b>It was just naturally assumed that you knew the truth: that you were wanted, and you had a place there.</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was growing up, I had very few friends. I had someone I called a best friend when I was five-years-old, however her family moved away within a year or two of our friendship and I haven’t seen her since. My early teen years were spent in homeschooling circles where I spent so much time trying to fit in and find myself a bestie that my desperation was probably part of the reason why I failed to form any lasting friendships. Those who had the potential to be substantial were snuffed short when the families moved away.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After the local homeschool group broke up, I went from the ages 14-18 without any true friends or community. We weren’t attending church during that season of life, so without six-weekly homeschooling get-togethers I had no fellowship outside of my family. I had penpals I dearly loved (one of whom remains a precious, lifelong friend) but they lived in other states, so I rarely—if ever—saw them. As I got older, my late teenage years were marked by the discovery of online community, and I made some incredible connections through a writers’ forum. Fast forwarding to today, I’m now a part of a thriving community and I have some amazing friends in my life who know me well, and love me through my highs and lows. I’m incredibly blessed. Yet the road to where I am now was paved with many lessons.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Somewhere along the line early on I picked up the message that friends were most important. I strived to build relationships with people, to form friendships through letter writing, mutual hobbies and interests, even if those things were a bore to me. I did my best to fit in, believing that was the way I would be accepted. Though my efforts were admirable because I didn’t wait for others to come be my friend, they were misplaced. <b>I was compromising who I was in order to gain something, and any affection you earn by selling yourself is not real love. </b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I joined the writers’ forum with every intention of being myself. I went in with the mindset that if people didn’t like me, then it was their loss. <b>It was too much work to pretend to be something I wasn’t and like things I didn’t, so I dropped the pose and found—to my surprise—how much people liked me.</b> I made lasting friendships through that forum, and was encouraged and challenged more than I’d ever been before; learning to reach out to people and be a shoulder to cry on as well as championing them in their successful moments. It was a fundamental step in my journey of learning to build good relationships. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Shortly after this point I was invited by some new friends to join a Bible study/discipleship group at a neighboring church. Nervous and excited about being a part of a group of people around my age, I had no idea how that invitation would completely change the course of my life. <b>Slowly learning to let me friendship-scarred heart be known, I stumbled through learning to love others and be loved myself.</b> We sharpened one another through discussion, serving, miscommunications, planning subject matter, butting heads, and lots and LOTS of conversation. This group ended up supporting me and encouraging me through some very difficult transitions in my life which led to me eventually finding healing and attending their church and being able to call it home; a very new experience for me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">While friendship-building involves much selfless hard work, I'm beginning to see even the friends we make through the eyes of grace. <i>Eucharisteo,</i> "all is grace". <b>Salvation is not the only thing that takes the grace of God.</b> Scripture tells us that for us to have friends, we must be friendly. <b>Grace helps us first become that friend.</b> Which is why now I am grateful I had those years of solitude where I could become a friend to my family, grow stable and able to stand on my own, and become a person much more worthwhile being friends with once I became an adult. I’d done the work on myself, and am still working on myself. </span>It starts with me, my attitude, and what I choose to believe. <b>I found friendships much more readily when I believed the truth that I was accepted and worthy.</b> It meant I didn’t have to earn people’s favour and attention. I simply <i>believed I was worth favour and attention.</i> It’s a subtle difference, but an important one nonetheless. True, this mindset has potential for pride to seep in, but if that does happen, it will undermine what you are trying to build. People are drawn to humility. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Second, grace brings us the right friends. </b>Akin to the way grace made salvation available to us without forcing us to receive it, out of His grace, God puts people in our lives that He knows we need, and it is up to us whether we partake of those relationships. Whilst I now have people I am responsible to invest in and strengthen relationship with, these people didn't randomly appear in my life. <b>Grace put them there. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>When both are combined—grace to be a friend, grace to have a friend—beautiful things happen.</b> I got to the place where instead of trying to prove I was worth knowing, I believed I was. Though the quality of friendships I have now are a result of a lot of hard work, sowing, investing, and giving, I no longer do those things in order to prove I'm a good person (at least, I'm learning not to). I focus on the other person. It’s what Jesus meant about how those who lose their life will find it. <b>I found a lot more friends accidentally by loving them than I ever did striving to prove I was worth loving.</b> I took my place at the table.</span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">And that’s the truth; the truth is that grace sets a table right there in front of each of us. We all have a circle of faces around us, waiting for what we have to bring. We’ve been invited, but it is our responsibility to pull up a chair. </span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Having pulled up my own chair and sat down at the feast, sometimes I get distracted by those standing on the fringes. “Come on over!” I call. “There’s room for you here!” Sometimes I even leave my place at the table (without asking) to go stand with people on the outskirts, exhorting them to bring their whole selves to the table; as if they don’t understand the wording on the invitation, or that they don’t have the ability to drag a chair over. Or perhaps they scorn certain company, much like the elder brother of the prodigal son, and I feel compelled to justify their presence. Or maybe a flawed understanding of humility causes them to hang back. <b>But standing there on the edges of the room, I fall into the trap of feeling guilty about my own seat.</b> I feel shame when I sit down because I chose to come. I chose to do the work of salvation: <b>receive. Take. Be given to.</b> Honestly, salvation really does take a darn lot of courage; courage to believe you’re worth it. Courage to own that you’re loved, and trust that partaking of the feast and naming yourself a child of God brings gladness to the Father’s heart. So when I see others struggling to receive, I can feel guilty about my own gift.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The thing I need to remember is that no one forced me to take a chair. </b>In all the years I spent begging for crumbs and scurrying beneath the feet of people already seated, I was never grabbed by the scruff of the neck and planted in a chair beside my heavenly Father. I was never bribed to the table, or deceived into taking a seat. I came to the end of my own efforts to a place where I recognized my singular value in Christ, and the fact He was holding the chair for me to sit down. It was not difficult. I didn’t have to strive for it or try to earn it. <b>I simply had to humble myself and allow myself to be seated. </b>Deuteronomy 30:11 reveals God telling us that this is not out of anyone’s reach, or is too difficult for us to receive. It’s not my place to compel others to take their place. It’s also not my place to feel guilty for those who may still hesitate to receive it. I don’t believe punishing myself by leaving the table to stand with those yet to take a chair honours God. Rest honours God, and where there is rest, God is (Exodus 33:14). <b>I want to dwell in the presence of the Almighty, and not stand outside of that presence because I am tempted to feel guilty</b>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wrote a song some months ago about friendships and the way God brings the right people into our lives at the right time. I sing from my experience in one line where I say, <i>when the love in your heart still longs to be found, be ready for when God brings the right souls around. </i>While there can be times we feel so lonely and far from community that we can't even see a table to be seated at, patience has its perfect work. <b>The community you seek and the feast of fellowship you long for is there. It can just take time to be found. </b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This line lately has been coming to me over, and over again: <i>there is a place for us at the table, but it is our responsibility to pull up a chair.</i> I’m no longer taking responsibility for other people’s chairs. I choose to be seated at the table, even if it may be prepared in the presence of those who do not understand the feast or acknowledge the invitation (Psalm 23:5). There is room enough for everyone, and the responsibility—<i>the faith to take</i>—lies within our reach. You are invited! <b>Come, pick up your chair and join the feast.</b> If you’ve felt the isolation of being left on the fringes, you needn’t feel shame, guilt, or discouragement. The Father’s answer to your unspoken question is the same:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes! Pull up a chair!” </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, yes, yes, dear friend. Believe it. <b>Bring your whole self and come.</b> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You have a place at the table.</span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“There will always, always be a place for you at My table, return to Me, My child.” — Josh Garrels, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FwDFBwUwZPs">“At the Table”</a></span></blockquote>
Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-73689535634845535422018-10-21T10:31:00.001+11:002018-10-21T10:31:19.339+11:00Be Loved First<div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“As I grow older, I discover more and more that the greatest gift I have to offer is my own joy of living, my own inner peace, my own silence and solitude, my own sense of well-being.” — Henri Nouwen</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I put aside the book I just finished and prop my chin against my hand. Sleeping At Last is gently humming through the speaker, filling my room with gentle melodies, calming my nerves. I’m lying on my bed, feet propped against the headboard and I stare absently at my blue-green woolen jumper slung over the foot of the bunk. Thinking. Not thinking. Letting my mind rest in blankness for a while before returning to its normal state of flurry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The book I just finished was called <i>Present Over Perfect </i>by Shauna Niequist. It speaks about a woman’s journey of ceasing from hurry and hustle to prove herself to the world, and returning to a quiet life where a yes to Christ’s presence and love is at the center of it. I can relate to her story. It wasn’t too long ago I felt God whisper to my soul a love-ladened warning: <b>if you don’t learn to rest, you’re going to die.</b> Rest, He says. A short, four-letter word that rolls off the tongue but feels impossible to get a handle on. Calendars fill up, cars need cleaning, washing hanging, church to attend, friends to see, people to counsel and businesses to run. A million and one responsibilities. It’s not as though any of it is done so much to earn approval, or worth (is it, Lord?). <i>Well, I can’t just do nothing with my life, can I?</i> I tell myself. If I’m not being useful, what is the point?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Being, maybe. I do understand the importance of learning to be. After all, “be still and know that I am God” begins with being. The ability to sit in silence and solitude, with no one but God and your own company is a mark of returning to your essential or true self, according to both Brennan Manning and Henri Nouwen. <b>Silence is where you learn to quiet the shouting outside of you and within you in order to hear that still small voice; the voice that calls you beloved.</b> It’s around my neck. I distractedly finger the silver chain, and trace the letters I know are found there: “ b e l o v e d ”. My head knows these things, yet I feel like my heart is still catching up. An adopted child still coming to grips with the fact they are both wanted and loved for who they are. It takes time for the heart to begin reflecting the reality of the born again soul. I feel like my heart has been given all the information and updated details of its identity, yet in the face of God’s Word saying so, it still starts every time it sees that unexpected face in the mirror. Funny, I often despise it when people forget truth, yet the most fundamental reality of life in Christ tends to slip my mind more often than I care to admit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>My greatest need in life is to intimately know this reality: that I am beloved of God, and that is enough.</b> I say this because the word “need” has been creating conversations between myself and God. Needs are things I understand very well. I see them everywhere, in everyone. Need is the language I speak, and meeting needs is my greatest act. I use “act” with deliberation, mind you. Present me with any soul plus an hour, and I can usually discover where that person is insecure, where their buried gifts lie, where they’ve been hurt, what they’re passionate about, and a good idea of what their life’s trajectory is. At this point, my job then is to I deliver. I give them what they need; wanted or not. <i>“You need to forgive yourself for that,” “you need to walk away from that situation,” “you need to step out and try,” “you need to comfort that person,” “you need to listen to that counsel”. </i>You need, need, need. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Robert Downey Jr.’s character in the Sherlock Holmes movies was asked, “what do you see?” His reply—“Everything. That is my curse.” That is how it feels; and to have a set of eyes perfectly tailored to take in every need is excruciating. On top of that, the ability to deliver a convincing act based upon those perceived needs is both involuntary and exhausting. I expressed this to my sister not long ago, that it is so frustrating to walk into a room and know immediately what the room needs me to be and automatically becoming that person. I can’t not. <i>Be the life of the party. Be the listener. Be the motivator.</i> Be to meet the need. I get a distinct impression that this is not the kind of being God is calling me to. This kind of being doesn’t know how to rest in belovedness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A tool God has used lately to unearth some of these meditations is the enneagram, and in recognising some of the traits and motivations of the type 2, I’ve become aware of a devastating flaw in myself. <b>That, in all my efforts and desires to love others and meet their needs, all of it is motivated by a need to be lovable; to be loved in return.</b> How selfish. How humiliating. I fix people and tell myself I’m being helpful, but I’m actually trying to protect myself from being hurt by their imperfection. My meeting people’s needs? Often it is a symptom of losing my awareness of my own belovedness in God’s eyes. Part of me thinks that type 2’s get the short straw in this, especially Christian 2’s. <b>We are exhorted by Scripture to love everybody always, yet forget to be loved first ourselves.</b> And so, we get caught up in the distraction of loving, yet never truly know the love we are working so desperately for; without even realising that’s what we’re doing. In the words of <i>Sleeping At Last’s</i> poignantly accurate lyrics in his song, “two”: <i>I just want to love you, to love you, to love you well; I just want to learn how, somehow, to be loved myself.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alongside type 2, the wing of type 3 also appeals to a room full of people for acceptance; being becomes doing, an act or dance to please the crowd. “It’s so exhausting on this silver screen, where I play the role of anyone but me”. No small wonder why the lyrics to <i>Sleeping At Last’s</i> “three” also resonates in my heart that longs for peace and rest: <i>maybe I’ve done enough</i>. Yes, “enough”. Done enough for whom, I wonder? Why do I do it? For myself? Probably a good chunk of it, whether I’m conscious of it or not. For others, under some guise of “keeping the peace”? Also a fair assumption. For God? Well no, not so that He will love me, I know that already.<b> Or do I?</b> If I did know that—truly know His love for me—would anyone else matter? Would anything else mean anything? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Many voices ask for our attention… ‘prove that you are a good person’… ‘you’d better be ashamed of yourself’… ‘nobody really cares about you,’ and one that says, ‘be sure to become successful, popular, and powerful.’ But underneath all these very noisy voices is a still, small voice that says, ‘you are My beloved, my favour rests on you.’ That’s what prayer is. It is listening to the voice that calls us ‘my beloved’.”</span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">— Henri Nouwen</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sitting by myself on the verandah of the small flat we have next door, I sat in the sun and gazed at the rolling hills and trees before me, leading all the way to the foot of a mountain, Mount Olive. Mount of Olives… the name of the place Jesus often retreated to for quiet solitude. As I sat and listened to the stillness, I felt God draw near and whisper to my heart, “what if I came and stood before you; right here, right now, and asked you: what do you need? What do you need from Me? What would you say?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I felt my chest constrict and hot tears welled up in my eyes as my breath came in rasps. “I don’t know,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I need.” Talk about humbling. The Creator of the universe comes down and asks this fatally flawed human with a billion imperfections—and those she knows about—and I couldn’t think of a single need. They say a type 2’s sin is pride; pride in the sense that they don’t believe they have any needs; they are dependent on no one for anything, self-sufficient. <b>And antithetical to the Gospel.</b> Though God in His grace didn’t take my ‘I don’t know’ as an answer (good parent that He is), <b>I did realise that taking the time to become acquainted with my soul’s needs draws me into closer communion with my Creator.</b> Pride goes before a fall, but thankfully the Rock of Ages breaks that fall.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Getting back up again, learning to practise stillness in His presence; humbling myself by admitting my needs to this Father in heaven who loves me; this is where I’m at right now. I by no means have this perfected, either. Not by a long shot. But I’ve come to realise that though God knows both the past and future, He lives in neither of them. God is the God of “now”. Present; <i>the gift of His presence.</i> Now. Today with its needs and problems. This moment. Breathing. “Every breath that I take says I love you, and every beat of my heart says I'm Yours. Every step that I take says I need You, and I will bless Your holy name.” How much more vividly I understand the words of that hymn: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Lord, I need You, oh, I need You. Every hour I need You. My one defense, my righteousness, oh God, how I need You."</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">My greatest need in life is to intimately know this reality: that I am beloved of God, and that is enough. Saying yes to His presence. <b>Choosing belovedness. </b>No more acting, or meeting needs to be loved. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just be loved first.</span></div>
Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-52658904056537230042018-09-14T16:29:00.000+10:002018-09-14T16:29:20.381+10:00The Need to Write<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">/ You wrote your name in invisible ink / For you were so afraid of what they might think / But the scars they left, they were loud and clear / Weren't they? / — <i>Silhouettes, Sleeping At Last</i></span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I need to write. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not want to, or would like to.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I need to. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And not for the sake of others, either. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because I’ve discovered that there are many words in me with no place to go, and they will not stay silent. Nor are they easy to carry. In fact, I’ve felt the pressure building inside of me for many months, and I’ve had no idea why. Until now. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even in hindsight, I don’t exactly know how I reached this conclusion. The last couple of years have thrown me into a schedule that hardly leaves room for my first loves—God, family, friends, music—let alone putting pen to paper, and even then; those times were projects for clients. Personal writing has been reduced to writing long overdue letters to friends now and then, or mad dash scribbles in my journal when my head feels like it’s about to burst. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve always enjoyed writing. For several years, in fact, I called myself a writer and toyed with the idea of becoming a novelist. But then life sped up to the point where other things took priority, and writing of any sort got put on the back burner. This included my blog, which had always been a safe place for me to explore ideas and process my thoughts in a hopefully articulate and helpful way. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s been a long time since I’ve just let my thoughts flow freely onto the page; stringing words together in artistic phrases, editing and tweaking them to paint a glimpse of a picture I wish to better understand. I’ve let circumstances, priorities, people, and more come between me and this part of myself. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In my hectic life of pouring out, I have neglected to pour out one of the things that gives my soul air to breathe: writing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We live in a crazy world, full of so many different people and perspectives. My feet are weary and aching from walking in a different pair of shoes every other minute, trying desperately to understand every point of view and failing most of the time. Yet in my struggle for understanding, I’ve found a need to understand myself; buried deeply beneath a layer of self-sacrifice and people pleasing. Having peeled back the layers of insecurity that tend to ignore my own needs, I’ve recognised that I need time and a means of expression; a revelation in which I’ve discovered writing to play a larger part in my life than I previously realised.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"You have to write, Jo. You have to write. Sift down through your heart, through all the pain, and grief. There are words there. There's a woman there. And it's you." — <i>Little Women (2017)</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think the final piece of this puzzle fell into place watching the 2017 version of </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Little Women. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After facing a tragedy that shook her to her core, Jo went to her father for advice. In his telling her of her need to write, I felt my heart swell in my chest; the pressure of long pent up, unspoken words within me pushing hot tears into my eyes. "But I don't know what the words are. I don't know what to say,” Jo said in reply. "Say you were happy once,” her Father answered. “Say there was laughter. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Say what is true." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rightly or wrongly, I am a verbal processor. Talking out loud about everything and anything is my way of reconciling the world to myself and my understanding. But as I’m learning to choose my words more wisely, and being more careful of the audience I express them to, I’ve realised that the unspoken words still have to go somewhere. They don’t just evaporate, they need to be redirected or else they build up inside me until I feel my heart is going to burst; sharpened shards of glass shattering and splaying in a million directions, cutting through everyone and everything I care about in a violent display of hurt. Honestly, “going to pieces” sums up how I have felt for much of this year: the silence inside me screaming to be let out in a gully-raking rush of thoughts and emotions. I’m kinda surprised I’ve managed to keep things together as well as I have, and I’m grateful for those who have been a safe pressure valve for me to have some release before catastrophic failure.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ultimately I am learning to make God my one safe place, my refuge and my escape from the taunt of a full soul and a tired mind trying to make sense of the world. He will hear the things that I’m afraid to say, and help me to see through His eyes. It’s a slow process, getting to a place where it doesn’t matter if only Jesus hears my voice, and it being enough. I am so comforted by the knowledge that He hears me, sees me, and understands me completely. I really must learn to lean on that glorious truth with my whole heart. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So with that, I’ve also come back to writing. It’s to be part of my release; a gift and tool God has given me, and with His guidance, I will learn to use it in a healthy, freeing way. It’s so therapeutic to organise my thoughts on paper, cataloging and working through every little facet, philosophy, observation, and question and framing them with words. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realise how badly I needed to do it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It doesn’t matter if these words are never read, yet if they are, I’m hopeful that maybe they help someone feel a little bit less alone, or reassured that they’re doing better than they think at this thing called life. I pray you hold my words with grace and mercy; grace to sift the grain from the chaff, and mercy to blow the rest away with a breath of kindness. I may say some untrue things. I may say some things that look harsh, or bitter; crazy even, but they aren’t meant to be. These words are not foundational concrete in my life, but more like that spare bedroom where you put everything you don’t know what to do with and cannot throw away. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m cleaning house, and once I’ve cleared away everything, I’m going to make sure I don’t let it get that full again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm setting the words free.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Tears are words that need to be written." — <i>Paulo Coelho</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I write to discover what I know." — <i>Flannery O'Connor</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I will speak only what is right, guarding what I speak. Like a watchman guards against an attack of the enemy, I’ll guard and muzzle my mouth when the wicked are around me. I will remain silent and will not grumble or speak out of my disappointment. But the longer I’m silent the more my pain grows worse! My heart burned with a fire within me, and my thoughts eventually boiled over until they finally came rolling out of my mouth. </span><i style="white-space: pre-wrap;">(Psalm 39:2-4)</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Beautiful words stir my heart. I am speaking of royal things. My tongue is like the pen of a skilled writer. <i>(Psalm 45:1)</i></span></span></blockquote>
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Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-42682666632844196792018-05-03T12:35:00.000+10:002018-05-03T12:36:37.045+10:00Deaf or Blind?<script src="//s3.amazonaws.com/cashe-js/143e7cdebf193d2764.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hypothetical questions have always been a big part of my growing up, and my siblings and I could amuse ourselves for hours over them. After watching <i>Home Alone </i>for the first time, we hypothesised what we would do if robbers ever tried to break into our house if our parents were away. What if the moonlanding was a hoax? What if teleportation were possible? Would you rather fly or be invisible? In a hypothetical world, creativity is limitless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One particular hypothesis that would crop up now and then was the question of, "would you rather be deaf or blind?" It's an interesting one, and fascinating that—out of all the human body's senses—these two usually tie for priority. Most people know if they were given a choice, what they would choose.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Okay, so I went into clinic this morning, and I was telling my surgeon that I’d rather be deaf than blind. And he said, ‘It doesn’t work that way,’ and I was, like, ‘Yeah, I realize it doesn’t work that way; I’m just saying I’d rather be deaf than blind if I had the choice, which I realize I don’t have,’ and he said, ‘Well, the good news is that you won’t be deaf.'" — <b>The Fault in Our Stars</b></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If a person is deaf, they still have the ability to be independent. They can see to live on their own, drive, read, and speak, if only by sign language. A deaf person is not as dependent on others to live their life. Blindness, on the other hand, takes away a whole realm of abilities. Travelling alone becomes an impossibility; even getting dressed in the morning is tenuous. Yes, it is almost unanimous. It would be far easier to be independent deaf, than blind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">However upon meditating on the topic, I've noticed how much of life—the vibrant, engaging, beautiful, <i>withness </i>of life—is found in hearing. A group of friends sharing a joke and laughing till their bellies ache; the tearful voice of a friend in pain, the pealing sound of music pouring from an instrument, the birds calling early in the morning, the bustle of a busy place full of people, the roar of a waterfall, the quiet sound of a child breathing, asleep in your arms. Sounds connect us to the now in ways that sight doesn't always manage to do. Not to discount the beauty of sight, and the gift it is to take in this world through our eyes, but how must a deaf person feel in a room full of people; watching people's mouths move, and their eyes light up with a laughter they cannot hear, or witnessing a soulful story told without the tone and inflection of the storyteller? I can't help but imagine it would create such a feeling of disconnectedness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I often wonder if physical blindness is an example of what it is to trust in Jesus, and have our life hidden with Him. For we could certainly be independent deaf, but it would mean a disconnection from the audible world of laughter and music that makes life so full. Blindness needs someone to lean on, someone to be there whenever you leave the house, and to take you where you need to go. Blindness is co-dependent, yet it gives us a life full of volume and greater connection to the present. I think Scripture points to this similarity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">O Lord, I know the way of man is not in himself; It is not in man who walks to direct his own steps. — <b>Jeremiah 10:23</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways,” says the Lord. "For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts." — <b>Isaiah 55:8-9</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For the ways of man are before the eyes of the Lord, And He ponders all his paths. — <b>Proverbs 5:21</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. — <b>Proverbs 3:5-6</b></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Interestingly I find that I am most deaf to God's voice when I'm trying to do things on my own. The less I see, the less I understand, the more I need to trust in God's grace, and His leading. The more blind I am, the more dependent I am, and it is often there I find so much more abundant joy and peace. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This isn't to say that God doesn't long to reveal to us what He has in store for us (Prov. 25:2, Ps. 98:2, Col. 1:26), but the posture of our hearts should be one of trust. Never is our trust so tested than when we find it difficult to see. Man, how often I ache to see what is up ahead! To see something new on the horizon, to get a head's up for what is coming down the road. But if I could see, would I still be able to hear my Father's voice? I wonder. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's to those still stumbling in the dark, but hearkening after the voice of the Shepherd that guides us. May we never grow so independent that we grow deaf to Love's voice leading. We are your sheep, O Lord, and we know Your voice. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For He is our God, and we are the people of His pasture, and the sheep of His hand. Today, if you will hear His voice: “Do not harden your hearts, as in the rebellion." — <b>Psalm 95:7-8</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me. — <b>John 10:27</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, "This is the way, walk in it,” whenever you turn to the right hand or whenever you turn to the left. — <b>Isaiah 30:21</b></span></blockquote>
<br />Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-84460001537858176352018-03-08T10:30:00.000+11:002018-03-08T10:30:12.879+11:00The Would-Be Prince<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The feast had begun. Servants were coming forward to serve plates filled with the finest delicacies; platters heaped high with rare meats cooked to perfection, the best wines were being poured for each guest, and the room resonated with the sound of elegant silverware meeting the most exquisite china dishes as conversation buzzed along the length of the richly decorated banquet table. It was a feast fit for a prince. Only the prince wasn’t there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The countess drummed her fingers on the table in an impatient, unladylike manner unbefitting for her rank. He should’ve been here by now. She had counseled, lectured, cajoled, and threatened, yet he had still failed to make an appearance. She sighed under her breath. She knew why her nephew would not appear at the banquet tonight, and it made her feel a mixture of both compassion and frustration.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Leaning over to the count to whisper her intentions, she stood to her feet and begged the guests excuse her for a few moments. Those in attendance accepted her leave serenely, but a few glances were shared, and sly smiles were hidden behind bejeweled hands. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“What do they know,” the countess thought grimly to herself. “They wouldn’t understand.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Upon leaving the room, she ascended the ornate, marble staircase to his luxurious suite of rooms. Ignoring the servant standing stiffly outside, she rapped her knuckles gently on the door.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Patrick,” she said softly. “Are you in there?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There was no reply, so she let herself in. Of course, he wasn’t there. Turning about, she surveyed the spacious room and noticed his freshly pressed suit laid out untouched upon the large bed. The countess set her lips together in a firm line. She hoped he would be here, but she knew where she would find him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Turning swiftly, she marched back down the stairs and entered a side door to a passage she had barely seen a handful of times in her life. Following it through several rooms, she eventually arrived at the palace kitchen. The staff were in a flurry of activity, but half of them stopped, almost running into one another in shock as they saw the countess, elegantly dressed in her evening gown, long white satin gloves, and her perfectly coiffed hair draped in a netting of pearls standing in the doorway. She brushed their concerns aside, waving at them to continue in their duties. She was there on another matter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Where is he?” she asked of the kitchen overseer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The man, his face discerningly masked, simply gestured towards the pantry doors. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Try the cellar,” he said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She made her way brusquely towards the pantry and ignoring the curious glances of the servants, pulled open the door and turned sharply down the steep steps to the right of the doorway. As her feet found the bottom floor, her hand groped along the wall until she found what she was looking for. Her fingers flipped the switch deftly and the room was flooded with light from a single lightbulb suspended from the low ceiling. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Obviously the kitchen didn’t need the cellar anymore. With today’s technology, there were massive deep freezers and refrigerators close at hand in the expansive industrial kitchen. Yet the cellar still made for a handy place to keep wine bottles, potatoes, bread, and other pantry items that would benefit from the cooler space. Which was why she wasn’t surprised to see a young man hastily hide the slice of bread in his hand and shrink guiltily against the shelving as the light came on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He was dressed in nothing but a faded shirt, and torn jeans—he obviously hadn’t parted with the clothes he had been discovered in—his shock of dark hair was ruffled, complimenting the frightened and suspicious spark that flashed in his brown eyes. Despite his initial guilt, those eyes stared back at her with a mixture of defiance and resignation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You know, there’s a feast and a lot of people waiting for you up there,” the countess said dryly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“They’re waiting for someone who doesn’t exist,” came the gruff reply. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“No, <i>this </i>is who doesn’t exist.” She flicked a contemptuous hand at him. “The son of my brother—once the king—is not a scared rabbit that sneaks into a cellar to steal a loaf of bread. He is a—”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“He is <i>not </i>a prince!” His loud retort exploded in the confined space, reverberating off the close walls. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The countess took a slow breath. “Patrick…”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“That’s not my name.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It was when you were born.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“So?” the young man’s hands were shaking. Noticing, he clenched them into fists. “When I was kidnapped as a baby I failed to remember some key details. The only thing that really mattered was not being beaten by the blaggard I was sold to, and making sure I wasn’t caught when I stole food.” Cynicism dripped from his every word, each one intended to cut deeply. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">His aunt let her eyes close in pain for a moment. It didn’t matter how many times they talked about it, the truth of her nephew’s mysterious disappearance remained a deep and wounding regret within her. If only she had known… if only she could have prevented it…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She opened her eyes. “Nothing can change what happened to you, no matter how much that fact grieves me,” she spoke quietly. “But,” an edge came into her voice, “what happened to you does not change who you were born to be.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Patrick’s eyes darkened at her words. “I know nothing about being a prince. All I know is how to serve a master, and keep my head down. I’m a slave—” his voice cracked. “—and that is all I’ll ever be. No amount of fancy clothes and fine company will change that.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “You can’t change what’s inside of me.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“That’s the problem,” the countess’ eyes sparked with a fire. Tearing one of her long gloves free, she stepped forward and grabbed the young man’s arm. “The lie is in your head, but the truth is in the blood that flows through your veins,” shaking him a little, his gaze came up to meet hers. Aunt stared nephew in the eye, the intensity of her gaze seeming to ignite the air between them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“ In your head you may have lived as an orphan,” she said at length, “but you were born a prince. And nothing… <i>nothing </i>can change the truth of who you are. You just have to believe it.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He winced a little, and the countess realised she was gripping his arm like a vice in her fervour. She loosed it, and instead gently took his hand in hers. There was a moment of silence between them, both deep in thought. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I don’t know how to believe; to change,” he muttered at length. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s okay, I’ll teach you.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m afraid.” he whispered hoarsely. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and his aunt’s heart felt it would burst with the depth of love and compassion that swelled suddenly within it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She reached out her ungloved hand and tenderly cupped his cheek. “I’ll be with you, son. You don’t need to be afraid of what you will become; of who you were destined to be.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He lowered his eyes, and the countess noticed the clenched fist, still holding tightly to the stolen bread. She reached down and uncurled his fingers from around it and removed the crushed slice from his grasp, tossing it across the room.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You are not a slave anymore,” she said in explanation. “You don’t need to beg for what is already yours.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She put a gentle finger beneath his chin to turn his face towards hers. “You are loved, Patrick. You are a child of this house, with free access to everything the King has made available to you. Why do you fight so hard to be an orphan, when you were destined to be an heir?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She could see the confliction reflected in his eyes. “Being a slave is all I’ve known,” he admitted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Just because it’s comfortable, doesn’t make it true. It’s not impossible to learn who you are meant to be.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It just feels…” she watched him searching for the right word. “Prideful. After where I’ve been… what I’ve done… to call myself a prince…” he floundered to a stop. The countess smiled inwardly. He didn’t know that this coming to the end of himself—facing down the lies he had believed for so long—was actually the most humble thing he could do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“True humility is accepting the truth of who you are.” She said gently. “Nothing more, nothing less. Pride is to simply refuse the truth, whether that is by exalting one’s self importance beyond reality, or refusing to acknowledge the reality in the first place.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“So… denying I am a prince is, actually pride.” The words were accompanied by a dawning gleam in his eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His aunt smiled. “Right.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Patrick nodded slowly. He watched thoughtfully as his aunt rubbed her thumb across the blue arteries on his wrist. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Our experiences, and the lies we attract through them, do not dictate what blood flows through our veins.” She said quietly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The young man’s gaze moved from her thumb, past her hand to where her own wrist eventually disappeared into her sleeve. It was only then he noticed the scars there, peeking from beneath the lace cuff. He stared for a moment, before looking up to her face for confirmation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She smiled again, nodding. “We have a choice. Believe the lies, or trust the truth.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was then he smiled, and as he did, peace flooded his features in a way she hadn’t seen for a great many years. He reminded her of the baby she had once known. A prince. Now the image of him swam before her, as her eyes were suddenly flooded with tears. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I think I might be ready for that banquet now,” he finally said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Quite suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, the countess pulled her nephew into a tight hug, standing there in the palace cellar surrounded by wine kegs and bread loaves.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Welcome home, my prince.” She managed to choke out around the lump in her throat.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It didn’t matter that the young prince turned up at the banquet and announced his return in a faded shirt and tattered jeans. Everyone could see the resemblance to his father. No one could doubt the way he carried himself: sure, and newly grounded in believing the truth of his heritage. If people commented on his tardiness and sloppy presentation, he chose not to let it bother him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because truth be told, what does it matter when you carry the blood of a king?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="font-family: inherit;">"Therefore you are no longer a slave, but a son; and if a son, then an heir through God."</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Gal. 4:7</span></div>
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Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-45477731562453269232017-11-12T11:31:00.000+11:002017-11-12T11:31:42.089+11:00That Reckless, Raging Fury<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Taken from </i>The Furious Longing of God <i>by Brennan Manning.</i></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once or twice in a lifetime you hear a story that leaves an indelible mark on your heart and mind. Such is this story. I first heard it in 1967. It is Shel Silverstein's <i>The Giving Tree. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Once there was a tree... and she loved a little boy." And so begins the story of a tree being happy because she is able to make the boy happy. At first the boy desires nothing but to climb on her branches, eat her apples and lie in her shade.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But as the boy grows, so do his desires. But because of the tree's love, she gives her apples for him to sell for money to have real fun; her branches that he might build a house for a wife and family; and her trunk so he could build a boat and sail away from the boredom of life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then one day, the prodigal returns to the tree that loves him. By now, she has given him everything; all that remains of her is an old stump. The boy, now an old man, needs only a quiet place to sit and rest. And the Giving Tree gives once more.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ever since hearing that story many years ago, I've loved Silverstein's parable. It reminds me of Jesus, of whom Paul wrote in Philippians, "He emptied Himself." He cried from His heart, nails in His hands, and poured out His blood that we might believe His love for us. Significantly, Jesus chose the giving tree, His cross, as the demonstrative sign of His absolutely furious love for men and women. In the words of one early church father: "the mightiest act of love ever to arise from a human soul."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>How is it then that we've come to imagine that Christianity consists primarily in what we do for God?</b> How has this come to be the good news of Jesus? Is the kingdom that He proclaimed to be nothing more than a community of men and women who go to church on Sunday, take an annual spiritual retreat, read their Bibles every now and then, vigorously oppose abortion, don't watch x-rated movies, never use vulgar language, smile a lot, hold doors open for people, root for the favourite team, and get along with everybody? Is that why Jesus went through the bleak and bloody horror of Calvary? Is that why He emerged in shattering glory from the tomb? Is that why He poured out His Holy Spirit on the church? To make nicer men and women with better morals?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The gospel is absurd and the life of Jesus is meaningless unless we believe that He lived, died, and rose again with but one purpose in mind: to make brand-new creations.</b> Not to make people with better morals, but to create a community of prophets and professional lovers, men and women who would surrender to the mystery of the fire of the Spirit that burns within, who would live in ever greater fidelity to the omnipresent Word of God, who would enter into the center of it all, the very heart and mystery of Christ, into the center of the flame that consumes, purifies and sets everything aglow with peace, joy, boldness, and extravagant, furious love. <b>This, my friends, is what it really means to be a Christian.</b> Our religion never begins with what we do for God. It always starts with what God has done for us, the great and wondrous things that God dreamed of and achieved for us in Jesus Christ. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Further reading: </i><u><a href="https://bushmaid.blogspot.com.au/2017/01/the-ragged-king.html">The Ragged King</a></u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Further listening: </i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhKZn8gdN-E">The Love of God, Rich Mullins</a></span></div>
Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-89732130015489290262017-10-11T15:00:00.000+11:002017-10-11T15:00:12.679+11:00Golden Opportunities<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1dw57A9wk38/WdsYlidBlKI/AAAAAAAAXLU/IR2roaLLSvc_6t7SOd_S3yxF34560US4ACLcBGAs/s1600/Untitled-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="604" height="322" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1dw57A9wk38/WdsYlidBlKI/AAAAAAAAXLU/IR2roaLLSvc_6t7SOd_S3yxF34560US4ACLcBGAs/s640/Untitled-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't remember my very first golden opportunity. In fact, I'm sure there have been many that came and went which I can longer recall. But however good my memory of them are, there has been a string of such moments that shaped my life into what it is now, and I owe much of it to my parents: the facilitators of said opportunities.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have never been confident talking with people. Regardless of this fact, my Mum frequently pushed me outside of my comfort zone to talk to people: her friends, the cashier, strangers, clerks, anyone with a face. It was difficult. I would sit in the car nervously fingering the cheque deposit envelope whilst Mum ran me through the instructions of going into the bank, approaching the counter, smiling and saying hello, then handing the envelope to the teller. Six-year-old me would almost run toward the building, furtively tip-toe across the dark, plush carpet to the desk, smile quickly and thrust the envelope across the counter to the chuckling lady before retreating with as much self-control not to sprint as possible, before getting outside the building. Then I would pelt to the car, slip into my seat and heave a sigh of relief whilst Mum told me well done... but you didn't need to run.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was this prodding encouragement which brooked no argument that prepared me with courage I needed to reach out and grab golden opportunities as I grew older. Despite my innate people-pleasing desires that didn't want to cause bother, my parents had the clarity of vision to recognize opportunities in my life that I should seize. With every opportunity, I realized, came a certain amount of daring, and a certain level of risk I didn't always wish to take. While in some cases I probably missed out because I stubbornly refused to step out, in other cases my parents wouldn't take no for an answer, and with shaky legs and a pounding heart, I would have to make the leap.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One such occasion was sitting in a room full of musicians who were attending a Tommy Emmanuel masterclass in the city's renown music store. It was Q&A time, and I had a question I was aching to ask. It was a simple question really, and I had I bothered to go online and look it up, I could've worked it out by that time already. However my Dad kept prodding me, "ask your question! Go on, put your hand up and ask!" I ummed and ahhed for about two minutes before he poked me in the arm, and I raised a shaky hand. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yes! A question from the young lady down the back!" Tommy immediately said. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In a halting voice, I phrased my question, awkwardly holding my guitar and gesturing to my problem with playing higher harmonic notes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Come up here," he beckoned. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I froze in place, and with a nudge and a "go on!" from Dad, I squeezed past the people on my row and scurried down the front. Bending down from the stage box he was standing on he said, "show me." I fumbled with a chord and plucked at the dead harmonic. There was a moment's pause, after which he stated simply, "that's because you're playing it here. Play it there," he pointed. I played it and the harmonic rang out. "Ohhhh...!" I let out as I had the lightbulb moment. Everyone laughed, and Tommy smiled at me before leaning forward again, running his fingers lightly over the strings to show me a waterfall of harmonics. I stared, watching with delight before everyone clapped and I went back to my seat, flushed and elated: the only person called to the front for a moment with Tommy during the whole session. A golden opportunity that so easily could've slipped away if it weren't for my Dad's prodding.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another occasion was after we finished reading the <i>Ranger's Apprentice </i>series and my Mum told me I should email the author, John Flanagan and invite him to come visit our library for an author talk (my library held many of these kinds of events). It sounded so audacious and demanding to me, but Mum kept mentioning it and reminding me of the idea whenever the topic came up until one day I sat down and did it. I told John how much our family enjoyed his books, and how my brothers had even designed daggers to his books' specifications. Amazingly, he emailed back, and not only that, inside of a few months, I found out he was visiting our town's library. We smuggled the boys daggers into the library, and they were able to show them off to John who was duly impressed; to the point of using them in his talk to demonstrate the books' weapons to a room full of school kids. As a library volunteer at the time, I got to stay on for the extra sessions that he spoke at, and was invited by the librarian to join both her and John for lunch. I can vividly remember sitting there, nibbling on an egg and lettuce triangle sandwich across from John Flanagan, and all but pinching myself. <i>I'm having lunch with my favourite author!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wish I had a dollar for every time I'd been in a crowded place where something exciting was happening, and I saw my Mum and Dad's face as they yelled, "Go! Do it! Go and ask! Walk up there! Say something! <i>It's a golden opportunity!" </i>Even now, that phrase rings in my mind with the exuberance and conviction of my parents' voices. Whilst to this day I still have an inner struggle when it comes to talking to people or stepping outside of my comfort zone, I've learned that courage is a habit, and daring is like a muscle: the more you practise it, the easier it comes. If it weren't for this fundamental coaching from my Mum and Dad, I doubt I would have had half the life-changing and inspiring experiences that I've been privileged to have had. I certainly wouldn't have had the courage to walk up to Tommy Emmanuel a few years later at a guitar camp whilst he was in the middle of his breakfast and ask if he would sing a duet with me at the student concert (he did), I wouldn't have flown cross country (or internationally, even) to meet friends I'd never met before, and I wouldn't have designed lyric posters for one of my favourite artists because I never would've put my art on display to be found in the first place.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In Scripture, James says that we have not because we ask not. He preempts this statement by saying, "you lust but do not have" (Js 4:2-3). The truth is, opportunity is available to everyone, but most people would rather envy those who have seized those opportunities then take the risk for themselves. I think the problem is golden opportunities often challenge our comfort. The way Edison put it, "opportunity is missed by most people because it comes dressed in overalls looking like hard work". Good things don't just happen. Being told—or simply telling yourself—that, "I could never do that," "I'm not good enough," or "there's no way that could happen" creates the mentality that good things can never happen to you because of who you are. But I'm learning that often, good things are brought to life by people who don't look at the odds. They don't take account of history. Their mentality is more, "wouldn't it be awesome if..." and then dare to reach, work, and fight for it. Sometimes all it takes is raising a shaky hand and asking a stupid question.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is a whole world outside of our comfort zones, and if that doesn't sound like a golden opportunity, I don't know what does. </span>Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-53657219655177284652017-07-28T22:48:00.000+10:002017-07-28T22:48:35.335+10:00Sinful Slave or Saved Saint (of fleshly misconceptions and holy possibilities)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-baK_o2Dq4Zk/WXsHvMEihzI/AAAAAAAAW8o/ttYKoujx4-MH8R9TxnnXLBPYBR_SHzt1wCLcBGAs/s1600/cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="847" height="302" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-baK_o2Dq4Zk/WXsHvMEihzI/AAAAAAAAW8o/ttYKoujx4-MH8R9TxnnXLBPYBR_SHzt1wCLcBGAs/s640/cover.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There’s so much freedom / waiting for me / why would I waste
my time / thinking darkness is a part of me / when it’s just the absence of the
light. / — Citizen Way</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the biggest lies we can believe in Christian culture
is the belief that we are sinners. Specifically that we have a “flesh”, or an
inherent “sin nature”. Before the Calvinists jump on me and beat me to death with the letter “T”
from TULIP, let me first say: you’re right. The sinful state is a real thing.
As descendants of Adam, humanity inherited a sin nature, a propensity for evil
and an inability to connect with God on our own. Sin is mankind’s heritage, and
the incapacity for righteousness is the blood that runs in our veins. Thank God
for Christ, because without His perfect, atoning sacrifice we could never have
restored our relationship with God. His perfection covered our imperfection.
His righteousness became our own. Crazy grace made an even crazier exchange for
us because we are crazy loved by the God who is Love itself; a Love that did
for us what we could never do for ourselves.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So note that I say that it’s the biggest lie in <i>Christian </i>culture<i>. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">How is it a lie, then? The lie I speak of is that even
though you are saved; though the blood of Christ has redeemed you and you are
new creation, you still retain that very same sin nature to some extent.
Whether it’s called total depravity, sin nature, the flesh, or what have you,
it’s something that is inescapable in this life and it is what causes you to
err from the straight and narrow. When you sin, when you fall, when you fail,
it’s because you have this sin nature within you that is striving against your
spirit. It will remain a constant struggle until you die, and part of the bliss
of heaven is that you no longer have to wrestle with temptation or sin anymore.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Part of this is true; we will only ever be completely free
of corruption once we reach the shores of heaven. Having said that, this
mindset—a life of constantly fighting against something we cannot help—I have a
problem with, because this is not taught in Scripture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">To begin, the Bible makes it very clear that once we are
born again, we are given the Spirit of God and we become new creations. Our
identities change. No longer are we slaves to fear and to our sin nature, we
are children of God; heirs with Christ. For, where the Spirit of God is, there
is life and liberty. In Him we have victory. In Him we are overcomers. In Him
we have everything that pertains to life and godliness. We are now dead to sin,
and alive to righteousness.</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Knowing this, that our old man is crucified with Him, that
the body of sin might be destroyed, that henceforth we should not serve sin.
For he that is dead is freed from sin.<b>” </b>—
<b>Romans 6:6-7</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“And if Christ be in you, the body is dead because of sin;
but the Spirit is life because of righteousness.” — <b>Romans 8:10</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to
fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.
The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of
God.” — <b>Romans 8:15-16</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the
Lord is, there is liberty.” — <b>2 Cor. 3:17</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature:
old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.” — <b>2 Cor. 5:17</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">/ They say always have a plan B / they say leave yourself an
out / better know your exit strategy / don’t burn the bridges down / well, I’ve
separated from the old me. / — Citizen Way</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Through my reading of Scripture, I find the message to be
very black and white. We are <i>either </i>dead
to sin, <i>or </i>alive to Christ. We are <i>either </i>slaves to sin <i>or </i>servants of righteousness. <i>Either </i>orphans <i>or </i>children of God. <i>Either </i>sinful
<i>or </i>holy. Of the world <i>or </i>of His Kingdom. Of darkness <i>or </i>light. Old <i>or </i>new. As far as I can see, there is no in between. There is no
Biblical pattern for living with a foot in both camps. There is no Scriptural
precedence for a life of constant strife between the flesh and the Spirit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Yes there is!” You
say. “Paul said in—<o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Romans 7:15-24? One step ahead of you. It never fails to
amaze me how this passage gets taken completely out of context by people who
want to prove this point. And on its own, I can understand why it’s so popular.
It reads:</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that do
I not; but what I hate, that do I. If then I do that which I would not, I
consent unto the law that it is good. Now then it is no more I that do it, but
sin that dwelleth in me. For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth
no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is
good I find not. For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would
not, that I do. Now if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it, but
sin that dwelleth in me. I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is
present with me. For I delight in the law of God after the inward man: But I
see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing
me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. O wretched man that
I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?” — <b>Romans 7:15-24</b></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Convincing on its own, yet it was never meant to stand
alone. Consider what it is prefaced by in Romans 6. Opening with the famous
statement, “shall we continue in sin that grace may abound?” Paul goes on to
state in no uncertain terms that as Christians who are born again, we are dead
to sin. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but dead things don’t do a whole lot
(newsflash). Dead flies don’t buzz, dead dogs don’t dig holes, and you can’t
ride a dead horse and get anywhere. Likewise, a dead body cannot sin. This is
the comparison Paul is drawing. If we were baptized into Christ’s death and
have been raised in the newness of His life, how can we sin anymore? Notice
that the righteous life being described here is not one obtained by striving,
but by yielding (surrendering) ourselves to God (Rom. 6:13). Chapter six is
surprisingly free of a spirit-versus-flesh complex.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Bracketing the passage in question, Paul introduces chapter
seven with a d</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">irect statement that he is speaking to those who know the law
(Jews). As is detailed in the earlier chapters of Romans, the Jews were still
trying to keep the laws as a means of attaining salvation, and claiming that
the law must still be upheld in light of the cross. Paul makes it very clear in
this chapter that as a wife whose husband has died is free to marry another, so
we are dead to the law and alive (married) unto Christ (Rom. 8:4). </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Without the Spirit, all men are carnal beings,
“for when we were in the flesh, the motions of sins, which were by the law, did
work in our members to bring forth fruit unto death” (Rom. 7:5). He then goes
on to explain that though the law is good, its purpose was to bring forth sin
(Rom. 7:7-13) because without the Spirit, we are incapable of fulfilling the
law. <b>Carnal, mortal, human beings cannot obey a spiritual law.</b> It is in this
context, that Paul speaks in verses fifteen and onwards.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think we can all safely agree that Paul has been born
again by the time he wrote this letter, yes? If that is so, then this statement
in verse fourteen would be incorrect: “For we know that the law is spiritual:
but I am carnal, sold under sin”. <b>Someone who has received salvation is no longer sold under sin.</b> This proves Paul is speaking in past
tense. In conjunction with exposing to the Jews the folly of believing they are
able to keep the law, he is showing that, <i>without
Christ, </i>“what I would, that I do not; but what I hate, that do I” (Rom.
7:15). The triumphant conclusion to this exposition of hopelessness—being that
of a man trying to please God in the flesh—is one of great exultation:</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank
God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” — <b>Romans 7:24b-25 </b></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Continuing in that vein in chapter eight, Paul exhorts us
that since we are now in the Spirit, we are not to walk after the flesh
(because the flesh is dead). “If Christ be in you, the body is dead because of
sin; but the Spirit is life because of righteousness” (Rom. 8:10). He goes on
to say that only those who are led by the Spirit are called children of God,
and he refers to living carnally as bondage to fear (Rom. 8:15). Elsewhere we
are told that perfect love casts out all fear (1 Jn. 4:18) and that as redeemed
saints, we have not been given the spirit of fear (2 Tim. 1:7). No longer are
we slaves to our behaviour. No longer are we fighting a losing battle. No
longer are we to be victims of sin, of fear, and of death, but we are
victorious, righteous, holy saints of Christ by the Spirit and the new
nature He has given to us. Hallelujah! This is glorious news.</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">/ I’m never going back / to the chains that were broken /
never going back to the grave / I’m never going back / my eyes have been
opened. / — Citizen Way</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> "A righteous life [made righteous by Christ] produces righteous living. However righteous living does not produce a righteous life." — <b>Lawson Perdue</b> </span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“So, you’re saying that the Christian life should not be
marked by temptation or sin? Are you saying that we should never struggle with
anything in this lifetime? Are you kidding me?! That’s impossible!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I do understand your confusion, truly. I can understand how
preposterous this sounds when we live in a world so corrupted by sin and evil,
and we see so many of our brethren living in much the same lifestyles. Yet there is
something that strikes me as funny about this sentiment. It’s the fact you say
it’s impossible. <b>How readily we are to believe that God can do anything in our
lives… except help us live holy. </b>It kind of makes you want to forget those
verses we so often quote in difficult times—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“The things which are impossible with men are possible with
God.” — <b>Luke 18:27</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
— <b>Philippians 4:13</b></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I shouldn’t tease, but here is the point that I so desperately
wish to drive home:<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b> </b></i></span></span><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>if we don’t believe
holiness is possible, sin will always be excusable.</b></span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> We will always be able
to use our flesh as a scapegoat, and our sin nature as a copout. We will always
be able to point to the future, “then,” we can say, “in heaven, is when we will
be free of this carnality”. It’s not that those with this mindset will
celebrate sin as a good thing. Please understand me. I’m not saying that people
who believe in a Christian’s dual personality as saint and sinner are excusing
sin. Most people I know who believe this are staunchly against sin. However
there is no freedom in this philosophy. Sin will always be a ball and chain
around our feet if we continue to think this way. There is no doubt in my mind
that if we always consider sin to be part of our innate nature, it will always
be ready to seize the opportunity to govern our spirit. Do we have a choice in
this? Absolutely! But that choice will always be easier made from a place of
victory before the battle even begins. This is why we are not fighting, but </span><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">standing.</span></i></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath
made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.” — <b>Galatians
5:1</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye
may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.” —
<b>Ephesiahs 6:13</b></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m going to acknowledge your statement before you make it:
<b>Christians still sin, yes.</b> “Aha!” You say. “That is because of the flesh!”
Actually, no. It’s not. Remember, if we are new creations, children of God,
heirs in Christ, walking in the Spirit, dead to sin, alive to righteousness,
holy and redeemed saints, we do not have a flesh. It died. So what then? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Are ye so foolish? having begun in the Spirit, are ye now
made perfect by the flesh?” — <b>Galatians 3:3</b></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Breakdown: before salvation, sinners sin because they are
sinners. During salvation, sinners become saints. After salvation, saints sin
for one reason—an un-renewed mind. Scriptural evidence for this theory is as
follows:</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “For to be carnally
minded is death; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace.” — <b>Romans 8:6</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “And be not conformed
to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may
prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.” <b>— Romans
12:2</b></span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit
of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because
they are spiritually discerned. But he that is spiritual judgeth all things,
yet he himself is judged of no man. For who hath known the mind of the Lord,
that he may instruct him? </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>But we have the
mind of Christ.”</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> — <b>1 Corinthians 2:14-16</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“But I fear, lest by any means, as the serpent beguiled Eve
through his subtlety, so your minds should be corrupted from the simplicity
that is in Christ.” — <b>2 Corinthians 11:3</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“That ye put off concerning the former conversation the old
man, which is corrupt according to the deceitful lusts; and </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>be renewed in the spirit of your mind;</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">
and that ye put on the new man, which after God is created in righteousness and
true holiness.” — <b>Ephesians 4:22-24</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus.” —
<b>Philippians 2:5</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall
keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” —<b> Philippians 4:7</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“For this is the covenant that I will make with the house
of Israel after those days, saith the Lord; I will put my laws into their mind,
and write them in their hearts: and I will be to them a God.” — <b>Hebrews 8:10</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Wherefore gird up
the loins of your </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>mind</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">, be sober, and
hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto you at the revelation
of Jesus Christ.” — <b>1 Peter 1:13</b></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Like an orphaned lost heir to the throne who doesn’t know
his true identity, our minds must catch up to the fact that we have been saved
and set free. Not only does Scripture testify to this, but so does history.
Emancipated slaves had freedom, they just didn’t all know it. All of us have
been born into this world as orphans. After we are redeemed, we spend the rest
of our lives renewing our minds to the fact we are dearly beloved children.
Thus, when a Christian sins, it isn’t an innate sinful nature that pulls us
towards evil deeds, but rather the habits of our mind that retraces our steps
back into dead works. This is different to the belief that we have two opposing
forces within our souls. James speaks of this dual nature quite harshly:</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.” — <b>James
1:8</b></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The way that we experience this life is still through human
eyes. I believe however that there is a difference between the human experience
and sinful nature. The way we break, the way the world’s corruption hurts us
and we respond with raw, real emotions; these are not always sinful. After all,
Scripture also repeatedly tells us that God makes Himself strong on behalf of
the weak, that He is the defender of the powerless and His strength is made
perfect in the places we are the most broken. This is not to excuse failure,
and not to redress sin, but to embrace the glorious grace that Christ bought
for us and extends to us continually.</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">/ This is the heart reset / this is the 2.0 / this is the
wave goodbye / or is it hello? / this is the new me / redeemed, set free. / —
Citizen Way</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The grace of God shown to us through the perfect life and
death of Christ goes so far beyond our imaginations allow us. If we live
believing that Christ redeemed our souls from hell, yet left us victims to our
own natures, we are selling Him short. Understanding that holiness is not of
our own work, but is possible by the indwelling Spirit of God in us allows us
to live a life free of the stranglehold of sin. When we are called out on
behaviours that are ungodly—be that gluttony, lust, pride, envy, or any other
listed sin—we don’t have to lean back into the cushion of the flesh, and say
“it’s a war I will always be fighting”. There is no excuse. There is nothing we can use as a copout or a scapegoat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Holiness is possible. Righteous is who we are. Christ in us,
the hope of glory. Jesus said “be ye perfect, even as your Father in heaven is
perfect” (Matt. 5:48). He is the perfector of our faith. We are able to live
righteous lives by the righteous Spirit within us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let us not waste our lives on anything less. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“But the God of all grace, who hath called us unto his
eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that ye have suffered a while, make you
perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle you.” — <b>1 Peter 5:10</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to
present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy.” —
<b>Jude 1:24</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Now the God of peace, that brought again from the dead our
Lord Jesus, that great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the
everlasting covenant, Make you perfect in every good work to do his will,
working in you that which is wellpleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ;
to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.” — <b>Hebrews 13:20-21</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"You're either one hundred percent the child of God or you're one hundred percent a child of the devil. And if you're one hundred percent the child of God, it's not because of what you <i>did</i>, it's because of <i>Who you believed</i>. But because of Who you believed and who you became when you believed, the life that you live is a result of <i>who you are</i>, the things that I do are a result of <i>who I am</i>. I'm not doing them to try and become something, I do them because of who I am. I am a new creation in Christ. The Spirit of God lives in me." — <b>Lawson Perdue </b></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Further Reading:</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><a href="http://centricitymusic.us7.list-manage.com/track/click?u=7e27c8f8d7069d7722d689068&id=fb38b0c6ec&e=ab94cd94e9">My True Name</a></b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-6504554202128493162017-05-15T17:30:00.001+10:002017-05-16T11:55:23.899+10:00Should You Save Yourself?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2MZMsJ0qexc/WRkp06ptWII/AAAAAAAAWoM/Pq5TfpC0KRkXXCXea4s3Xz-7alI6qlTegCLcB/s1600/cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2MZMsJ0qexc/WRkp06ptWII/AAAAAAAAWoM/Pq5TfpC0KRkXXCXea4s3Xz-7alI6qlTegCLcB/s640/cropped.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So before I love someone else, I’ve got to love myself. - Ed Sheeran</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is a practical and simple principle that is featured in both aeroplane safety and swimming. On a plane, flight attendants will tell you that in the event of an emergency where the oxygen masks are dispensed, you must first put your own mask on before assisting others. The philosophy being, you are only in the position to help somebody if you are secure yourself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Similarly with swimming and lifesaving, unless you know how to swim well and understand the dangers of panic, you will not be able to save a drowning person. They will grab you in a frenzy of fear to save themselves and pull you under, drowning you both. You are only able to assist a drowning person from a secure position, else you risk your own demise. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is a concept that could well be adopted into the way we relate to helping one another. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was recently asked by a friend of mine my thoughts on this whole ideology of "saving ourselves first". On face value, it looks sketchily self-serving. To withhold help from someone in dire need goes against every grain of a compassionate heart. How can we stand by and do nothing for them? We must do <i>something. </i>Especially in the case of Christians, this need to <i>do </i>in order to save comes laced with a heavy dose of guilt. "We're Christians, we're strong, we know the truth, and we have Christ—in Whom we can do all things!—how can we stand by?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's a valid point, one I have often experienced myself. The hurt and suffering of our fellow man causes our heart to ache so that we <i>must </i>give. Compassion flows as we pour ourselves out on behalf of others, bringing comforting words, a hug, hours of listening, and carefully phrased advice so as not to break the trust given to us. We give, and give, and give; seemingly limitlessly. Until...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">...you feel completely <b>done. </b>Empty. Now the thought of spending time with that person is a dread, and you despair that there has been no change, and you beat yourself up for being such a failure of a friend; seemingly unable to transmit the strength and hope they so desperately need. Inadequacy weighs on you and sadness is strangling you before you even realize you've been pulled beneath the surface of the troubled water. How did you get here?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here are three things I have learned through hard experiences and wise counsel that have helped me identify the difference between selfish self-preservation, unhealthy generosity, and loving in wisdom and truth.</span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Identify emotionally healthy people and unhealthy people.<br /></b><br />Let's face it: <b>we all need help. </b>At some points in all of our lives, no matter what kind of person we are, we're going to need help. It's a fact. Having said that, there are some people who want help, and others who don't (regardless of how badly they need it). A common phrase my Mum has reiterated to me many times is full of wisdom: <b>you cannot help someone who does not want help. </b>It's true. All the time and effort you can give is wasted on a person who has chosen—intentionally or not!—to suffer. An emotionally unhealthy person wants your sympathy, not your assistance. They want to be the victim, not an overcomer. They will shy away from being challenged to do new things, and will reject any encouragement to make changes. They may entertain a fresh perspective for a while, but you will eventually see a pattern of attempting to rise, before settling back into the comfort of the doldrums—whatever they may be. These kinds of people are unteachable because they don't want help, and they will suck you dry quicker than a kid with a Slurpee.<br /><br />Emotionally healthy people are teachable. They can get just as low as those who are emotionally unhealthy, yet they desperately do not wish to stay there. They are willing to see where they could be wrong, and open to new ideas. They still want to be heard, and feel compassion, however they don't wish to exploit the person giving it. Even when they are weak, there is a strength to them that does not wish to remain as they are. <b>Emotionally healthy people have willing spirits even if "their flesh is weak" (Matt. 26:41).</b> Though tough love may hurt them, they will not walk away from you licking their wounds. They may flinch, but they will dare to look at themselves and face what they see. They truly desire help, and you can see over the course of time that the wisdom they receive, they begin to practise. <i>These </i>are the people we should invest our energies in. These souls are good soil that will yield a harvest if we take the time to plant.<br /><br />"But what of the others?" You may say. "Don't we owe them our compassion too, regardless of whether they heed our counsel?"<br /><br />Interestingly enough, the Prodigal Son in Jesus' parable was deserving of compassion as soon as he left home. He had broken with his Father, stolen away his inheritance early, and was in desperate need of tough love in the midst of his fancy spendthrift lifestyle. Yet the Father only ran towards him once he "came to himself" (Lk. 15:17). It was only when the son woke up in the morning, looked at himself in the mirror and said, "what on earth am I doing? I need help!" that help came. Not even Jesus went after those who were to be pitied, but were too proud or too comfortable in their squalor to receive help. Only to those who had the humility to ask did He give to freely. If this is Jesus' example, we should do no different.<br /><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Identify your own need.</b><br /><br />My Mum has often wisely said to me, <b>you cannot give what you don't have. </b>It's true at the most fundamental level, yet one we often fail to recognize. When we are floundering in our own griefs and troubles, we simply are not in a position to pour out on behalf of others. I have often fallen prey to the idea that investing in others whilst I myself was not doing well is the best way to get your mind off yourself. There is some truth to that, however <b>if it is a consistent habit to deny your own needs by putting the needs of others first, you are setting yourself up for a fall.</b> It can become a form of escapism: becoming so focused on serving others you deny your own struggles even exist. This hinders you from the soul work God would long to do in you, and limits His strength and wisdom from flowing in your life. You are essentially making yourself emotionally unhealthy by repressing your own feelings and focusing on the feelings of others. <br /><br />Newsflash: only <i>you </i>can live <i>your </i>life. We are called to love God before we love others. We are also called to love others <i>only </i>as we first love ourselves (Gal. 5:14). <b>It is not loving yourself to cut your soul off from its source of life.</b> It is not loving yourself to stuff all of your struggles and bury your hurts in an effort to somehow be strong enough to help someone else. It's only as you bring your heartache to the Lord, and face your own troubles that you can be in any sort of place to offer comfort to another in theirs. <b>It is only as we receive from God that we have anything at all to give (Matt. 10:8). </b>Unless you have the security of knowing your heart is safe in the hands of your heavenly Father, and you are not running from your circumstances but are found confident that your identity and worth is in Christ alone, your feet will not be on firm and secure ground to pull someone else from the water.<br /><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Identify the difference between sympathy and compassion.</b><br /><br />Sympathy is a feeling invoked by witnessing the suffering of another. It is a feeling of sadness and helplessness, of wanting better for someone, and the expression of that sentiment. Sympathy requires very little effort to feel, yet it also requires zero action to be sympathetic.<br /><br />Compassion however, is not merely the feeling of sympathy, but the drive and the will to do something about it. Compassion motivates a person to action: to help, to do, to bring about change in another's life for the better. Where sympathy is not a boat-rocker and desires not to make waves, compassion will do whatever it takes to better the circumstances of another, often at a cost.<br /><br />It is important to recognize the difference because it will determine the way you approach investing in a person. Sympathy has the potential for keeping a person locked in their circumstance. Sympathy feels good! It's nice to have someone crooning over you, and stroking your hurt (and your ego). Yet it does a person very little good in the end. <b>If you are truly desirous of investing something worthwhile in a loved one, you must be compassionate.</b> Compassion won't shy away from speaking the truth, even if it's hard. Compassion will lance a boil, not kiss it better. Compassion will see the best in a person and call them out on it, or call them up to it. Sympathy would rather sit and mope along with their friends in an effort to make them feel less alone. Compassion will say "get up! Keep going! You can do this!" rather than, "there there, poor you, it's so sad". Whilst compassion can and often does listen, comfort, and share a silent presence, it cannot stay there. It loves too much. <b>Compassion is love with boots on and a 'get 'er done' attitude.</b> It desires to empower, not deprive.<br /><br />Not everyone likes compassion. However if you spend the majority of your time investing in emotionally healthy people (or perhaps I should say 'humble people'), you will be planting in fertile soil. <b>If someone rejects your compassion, it's a good indication that that individual is not ready to receive help in the first place.</b> </span></li>
</ol>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Isn't that how it works? We take turns in saving one another. I think they call it fellowship." — Dorcas Lane, Lark Rise to Candleford</span></blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is one more crucially important point I have left out of all this, and that is: <b>you cannot save people in the way Christ does. </b>For the longest time, I would lie awake at night thinking of so many friends going through trying times, and attempting to figure out just what I could say or do to help them; to offer them salvation. It took me a long time to realize that it wasn't my job to save them in that way. I couldn't. I still can't! And when it comes to the idea of saving ourselves, that too is a fallacy. In fact, it was <i>because </i>we couldn't save ourselves that Jesus came. <b>Jesus is the One that saves both us, <i>and</i> others.</b> What is more, He doesn't expect us to save another. We may rescue someone from the fire (Jude 1:23) or save a willing person from drowning, however we cannot save someone's soul. We may share His love and show His compassion for others, but ultimately, their salvation is between them and their Saviour. It has nothing to do with you. <b>The humble do indeed take in turns at saving one another in life, but salvation from death belongs solely to Christ. </b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I understand the idea Ed Sheeran is trying to convey in the song I quoted at the beginning. If God were to answer it, I think it'd probably sound something like this:</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">See, I have come to save you. Trust in Me, and not be afraid. I am your strength and your song; I have given you victory. (Is. 12:2)</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am the door. If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved. (Jn. 10:9)</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Give, and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be put into your bosom. For with the same measure that you use, it will be measured back to you. (Lk. 6:38). </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">By his divine power, God has given us everything we need for living a godly life. We have received all of this by coming to know him, the one who called us to himself by means of his marvelous glory and excellence. (2 Pet. 1:3) </span></blockquote>
<br />Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-64766067430888232042017-05-04T13:15:00.001+10:002017-05-04T13:15:23.539+10:00Roots and Wings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oEFYMPnJq-U/WQhKNqqd1-I/AAAAAAAAWi0/rdYy4_--MGIc03gC7KCVSHrtvT6v5lZNgCLcB/s1600/cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oEFYMPnJq-U/WQhKNqqd1-I/AAAAAAAAWi0/rdYy4_--MGIc03gC7KCVSHrtvT6v5lZNgCLcB/s640/cropped.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="clear: both;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“As you are shifting you will begin to realize you are not the same person you used to be. The things you used to tolerate have now become intolerable. Where you once remained quiet you are now speaking your truth. Where you once battled and argued you are now choosing to remain silent. You are beginning to understand the value of your voice and there are some situations that no longer deserve your time energy and focus.” </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">—lessonslearnedinlife.com </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I typed the keywords "roots, wings" into the search bar. I shouldn't have been surprised that the graphic stock website did not return any results. No one talks about roots and wings in the same breath. They talk about them separately though. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">People will often use wings as a metaphor for new things: a new job, a new season of life, a new relationship. Or they use it in a way that describes throwing off all restraints and inhibitions to run after your passion or dream; to soar into one's calling or destiny. It's a very freeing and exhilarating word. I understand its appeal, and love everything it embodies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But I also love the word "roots". They are often talked about in a solid, foundational way; as a tree that exemplifies it well—whilst the storms and tempests may come, the roots that are dug deep into the earth hold the tree fast and strong. It denotes stability and depth, that a person who is rooted in something of value will never fall. I love and believe in the concept that those who invest the time and energy into sending roots down into wisdom will be secure through all life may throw at them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So I find it strange that whenever the two words meet, it will oft be said that "you cannot have both roots and wings". Literally speaking, I get it. I do know that something rooted to the ground physically cannot fly (kites are close, but no cigar). However I have noticed that opposites tend to attract, and in my experience, I’ve found that roots and wings are closer to one another than they first seem.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was raised in a conservative Christian home. Whilst my family did not attend church during my childhood, I spent a lot of time around conservative Christians in homeschool groups, and was taught a lot of conservative values and principles. Whilst much of what I learned about fringe issues from my own reading or from the influence of friends at the time erred on the side of legalism—especially in the quarters of things like courtship, homemaking, and acceptable ladylike hobbies—my faith found some deep roots in the Word of God, solid character values, and reverent holy awe for who God is. I learned to value community and the fellowship of the body in cultivating relationships, and sharpening one another with the truth; either by loving correction or in the heat of a good-natured doctrinal debate. These are all roots I deeply love and cherish about my formative years. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In my later teens and in more recent years, I embraced more fully the pentecostal theology passed down to me by my Mum and Grandma, both beautiful, strong women of God who have personally seen His hand move in powerful ways. I was baptized in water, and later baptized in the Holy Spirit which was accompanied by the ability to speak in tongues. I did intensive study of the doctrine of healing, and joined a Bible study group that taught and encouraged prophecy. I’ve been studying via correspondence for the last three years through Andrew Wommack’s Charis Bible college and learning more about the gifts of the Holy Spirit, and after attending a pentacostal church for several years, found freedom in worship to praise God through raising my hands. I’ve seen spiritual manifestations and miracles with my own eyes, and knowing there is so much more to this world and the incredible goodness of God we serve than just man’s tradition makes my heart sing. Understanding how much more I can hope for in this life gives me wings that I want to fly away on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yeah, so?” You may say. “You can have roots and wings. What’s the problem?” Well, there is a slight catch. Because in case you haven’t noticed, there is quite a big gap between the conservative/reformed camp, and the pentacostal/charismatic camp and I happen to have a foot in both of them. I am the result of a curious hybrid that neither fits, nor doesn’t fit in either camp. And it gets complicated. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because I can debate Calvinism with the best of them, and I love the wealth of Biblical knowledge often in common that can spark discussion at any point. I can also find plenty of pentacostal issues to rag on. Most of my family values are conservative, I love me some old authors (A.W. Tozer), and I love me some old hymns (<i>How Deep the Father’s Love</i>). I love potluck dinners, and uncomplicated fellowship. I love the reverent faith and worship that is without fanfare or embellishment. These are just some of the many things I miss from the pentacostal realm. Yet if I bring up tongues, healing, gifts of the Spirit, Joyce Meyer or contemporary Christian music, suddenly things get a little awkward. The glances are thrown around, and the gap inexplicably widens between both camps. I’m reminded I don’t fit in there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Likewise, when it comes to the other side, I love the freedom to praise in tongues, sing, even dance in worship. I love being able to dream and hope for the impossible and the supernatural with fellow believers, and join in daring prayers that take confident authority against the devil. I love the sharpening of having the boxes I try to keep God in broken, and having my eyes opened to new ways of seeing and receiving from a God who loves to speak to each of His children personally and uniquely. Yet if point out the shallow lyrics, bring up Scriptures about men and women’s roles, mention that the church building or institution has too much focus, or gaining numbers in any given ministry is not the goal, if I speak out about how we’ve drifted from valuing family or the dangers of over-structuralization… I fear the looks and judgment I would receive if I did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My greatest weakness is my desire not to cause controversy or offense. My greatest love, is my desire for truth. <b>However frequently—and unfortunately—fear trumps truth.</b> So instead of owning these two sides of me as a whole, I censor who I am and tailor my beliefs for whatever crowd I find myself in. Conservative baptist crowd? Don’t raise your hand during question time in church, banter over Calvinism and wear a skirt. Pentacostal crowd? Say nothing about the music’s volume, congratulate the kids on what they did at youth group and feign excitement for the next event. I've built false foundations in relationships because they were based on only part of me. I wanted to be taken seriously by conservatives and not laughed at for my pentacostal beliefs, so I proved myself a worthy contestant in debates by my knowledge of Scripture. I wanted to be taken seriously by pentacostals and not thought a stiff so I conformed my outward actions to the image expected of me as a worship leader. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>You know the problem with only being true to people’s expectations of you?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>It’s not really true. And truth is what sets you free (John 8:32).</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“To be loved but not known is comforting but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved is a lot like being loved by God. It is what we need more than anything. It liberates us from pretense, humbles us out of our self-righteousness, and fortified us for any difficulty life can throw at us.” — Tim Keller</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s been a slow dawn, but I’m beginning to realize I cannot live alternatively between both halves of myself anymore. It’s dishonest, and not true to who God created me to be. I’ve mourned plenty that I had to be a square peg in a world of round holes, and have wished fervently that I could permanently dwell in one or the other camp.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But I’m not. I never will be. This is how God created me, and these are the truths He has instilled in my heart. I don’t have to make excuses for them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Who I am is not a fight.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have to fight to prove myself to conservatives or pentacostals. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have to defend the person I am or answer to people who choose not to understand. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>It’s okay—healthy even—to have both roots and wings. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If I had only roots, I would never have had the inspiration or revelation to see beyond, but instead been consumed with traditionalism. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If I had only wings, I would fly beyond the reaches of reality and lose sight of foundational truths in an emotional quest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And the truth is what matters most.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Jesus said many things that were the truth that offended and divided people. As I read His answer, I recognize my own fear.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">His disciples came and said to Him, “Do You know that the Pharisees were offended when they heard this saying?” </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But He answered and said, “Every plant which My heavenly Father has not planted will be uprooted.” — Matthew 15:12-13</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whilst my flesh quails at the thought of having things that are comfortable, predictable or safe in my life uprooted, the fact is deep down, I have no desire for anything to take up room in my life if it hasn’t been planted there by the Lord. After all, don't only the things God plants bear fruit? Speaking the truth of who I am will cause some things and some people to be uprooted out of my life. That frightens me, but I am learning to have the courage not to divide myself anymore, for “if a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand” (Mark 3:25). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I want my love to be without hypocrisy (Romans 12:9). I want to live unashamed of the Gospel, and unafraid of public opinion—regardless which public. I cannot love without being honest, and my love is not true if I am not being true to myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>How can I expect honest love from others if I am not willing to first be honest myself? </b>How can I expect true vulnerability from someone else if I am too busy censoring my own heart? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am not complete. I am still learning and still eager to discover further truth God will enlighten me to in His Word, but I want to go from here with the acknowledgement of where I’ve come from. No more hiding. No more disguising or doctoring who I am to suit people I will never satisfy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>God is satisfied with me. That is enough.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In Him, learning to stand (Gal. 5:1). Learning to fly (Is. 40:31). Learning to love (1 Cor. 16:14). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So here’s to embracing my roots as I spread my wings. It's not easy, I will fail, but I'm choosing courage. This is who I am. Sinking my roots deep into the richness of His living Word as I soar into the shadow of His wings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“we can only love each other / when we're brave enough to be known / so don't be scared now / to confess what you're afraid we won't understand.” — Jason Gray</span></blockquote>
Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-66441085740279198022017-02-23T16:44:00.001+11:002017-02-23T16:44:50.166+11:00Negative Space<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NGyWWFtbFDk/WKzEOzNIpTI/AAAAAAAAV-0/FNjKENkZBZ49yScVXWu-MDeP1hjLWduawCLcB/s1600/spaaaaace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NGyWWFtbFDk/WKzEOzNIpTI/AAAAAAAAV-0/FNjKENkZBZ49yScVXWu-MDeP1hjLWduawCLcB/s640/spaaaaace.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have always been mesmorized by mindbenders and riddle pictures, but my favourite art style of all is that of negative space. Especially as I am a logo designer, but mostly because I'm an easily fascinated and intrigued person, I love the mystery and etherealism of it and—when done well—I could stare at such pieces for hours in puzzled awe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In case you're unfamiliar with it, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Negative_space">negative space</a> is the art of framing a subject in such a way that the space that is left creates the subject. It's a fascinating art form that can sometimes take several minutes of staring before you realize what the subject is. For some reason it really tickles my fancy that the subject itself <i>is not there, </i>but the objects that <i>are </i>there, point to the subject as clear as day. To get a better idea of what I mean, <a href="http://www.boredpanda.com/negative-space-logos/">check out these</a> incredible examples. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last year, I began frequenting the blog of Christian and comedian, <a href="https://branyancomedy.wordpress.com/">John Branyan</a> (you may know him from his Shakespearean <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OxoUUbMii7Q">Three Little Pigs</a>)</i>. Most of his posts are pretty varied; from eccentric topics such as hypothetical conversations about omelettes, to more sobering ones, like how the church talks about (or doesn't talk about) sin. The quick wit of John and his daughter, Amanda, and their humorous byplay is both refreshing and delightful. However the biggest contribution to his blogspace is the comments section. Namely, the passionate atheists that have set up camp there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Any time John makes a point about the logic of a Creator, the Christian life, or asks the question of how we came to be, it is often followed by a barrage of atheism, resulting in up to two-hundred plus comments. There are angry ravings from people set against "indoctrinating children" into Christianity, the contradictory history of the Bible, and the foolhardiness of believing in sin. There are those who simply have no clue, but love to sound like they do. There are deconverts who take the holy high ground (ironic) by saying that they "truly don't know". Whilst the Christians among the discussion do all they can to get an intelligent answer to the simplest of questions, the question is buried under a mountain of "scientific" dogma, or ignored all together. When the discussion gets heated, or an athiestic standpoint is seriously challenged, there is often a lot of backlash, cussing, and fit-throwing. It's all highly entertaining.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Contrary to what they probably think of me since I don't tend to mince my words pointing out the stupidity of some arguments (my sister thinks John and Amanda's intense snark and sarcasm is rubbing off), the conversations do make me think. After all, as human beings with incredibly complex imaginations, it is impossible to prove something with 100% airtight evidence, whether it be atheism or Christianity. I'm definitely open to being proven wrong in my understanding of what the truth is. But I find that there are so many questions that atheism just can't answer for me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">How do I know what I should or shouldn't do, and indeed, what sets the parameters for said <i>should </i>or <i>shouldn't? </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What is the answer for suffering? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What is the point of art, or storytelling? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Why do we care when an animal dies? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If the universe is pointless, why did we discover that fact? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If there is no Creator, how come things like technology didn't create themselves? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Why have kids? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If I'm living for my own entertainment and enjoyment, why should I care what happens to someone else? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What would I comfort someone who is grieving the death of a loved one?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The questions go on and on, however instead of getting rational answers, I'm faced with a lot of philosophical jargon and ramblings dressed up to look like logic. Sometimes reading <i>so much nothing </i>and viewing life through this perspective is depressing. Is there no hope? There's nothing better to live for other than my own selfish skin? How does anyone live like this? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On the flip side however, I am incredibly encouraged. Often I can come away from those intense comment sections buoyed in my faith, and with the truth of God confirmed in my heart. Because the harder they try, the more they rant and rave, the more I see that the atheism void they believe in and argue for so strongly, has a shape.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">It looks like God.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What people fail to realize is that the "evidence" against God they continue to present time and time again, the arguments, the science, the so-called logic, and the sheer passionate anger with which they deliver it, only adds to the framework of negative space, revealing the real thing:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">God really does exist. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is too much that cannot be explained without Him. When cases build up against His existence, when people reject the truth that there is a Maker and bury their heads in all manner of other theories, when you find yourself arguing over <a href="https://branyancomedy.wordpress.com/2017/02/21/evidently-youre-wrong/">what day it is</a>, amidst a culture where no one knows anything for sure and where identity is debatable, where violence reigns and the suffering cry out for answers, where there are stories of sacrifice, honour, and bravery, when we live on this small, fragile ball floating in space, and we can't help but marvel at the stars and galaxies, the stories, the glory and beauty of nature, when we are fraught by every manner of good and evil, and every single person has that one burning question "why?" engraved on their hearts...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Humanity instinctively looks to the heavens; because <b>we know He is there. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And some day... </i>the proof will be irrefutable. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The authority of the name of Jesus will cause every knee to bow in reverence! Everything and everyone will one day submit to this name—in the heavenly realm, in the earthly realm, and in the demonic realm. And every tongue will proclaim in every language: “Jesus Christ is Lord,” bringing glory and honor to God, his Father! - <i>Philippians 2:10-11 TPT</i></span></blockquote>
Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-76764317841533232342017-02-14T11:51:00.001+11:002017-02-14T11:51:57.182+11:00Heart of Glass<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZHutmmiGcCg/WKJUCunZ97I/AAAAAAAAVwk/v-LGPb3CMNM6M9OPviXDOFxWVhj1sZ6iACLcB/s1600/cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZHutmmiGcCg/WKJUCunZ97I/AAAAAAAAVwk/v-LGPb3CMNM6M9OPviXDOFxWVhj1sZ6iACLcB/s640/cover.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I came upon a heart today</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It said hi and so did I </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We found we had a lot to say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And as we talked, the time went by.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We shared of all our favourite things</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of what we did for work or fun</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And were we peasants or we kings</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mattered not, for we were one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The heart before me opened slow</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sharing piece by tiny piece</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The experiences that it did know</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Unfolded slowly, crease by crease. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The more I listened, the more I shared</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My deepest and most soulful things</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The more of all our hearts we bared</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We felt like we'd been given wings;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As if we'd built a sacred place</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Safe from all the world around</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Where we could see face to face</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And where our beauty made a sound.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was at this point I made a joke</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thinking we knew each other well</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But alas, the fragile heart it broke</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And receded back inside its shell.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't know how soft it was</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That it could easily shatter</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">How such a callous word could cause</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It to feel like it didn't matter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The pieces I had earned in trust</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd thrown upon the floor</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And fix it, though I know I must</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It won't be the same as before.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But the love of God is what will heal</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In ways we ourselves can't mend</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And a broken heart again will feel</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The love it couldn't comprehend.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A careless word can be a knife</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That can cripple and can mar</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So when we get to touch a life</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We should be careful not to scar.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Though, praise God, we can go on</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sharing hearts and souls again</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His grace we must rely upon </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If we are to bear the hurt and pain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So remember when you meet a heart</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No matter what it's type or class</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That it's God's precious work of art</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And almost always made of glass.</span>Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7755209147403169584.post-62367902596962026882017-02-07T22:24:00.000+11:002017-02-07T22:24:16.801+11:00Hypocrisy and Hard Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JNN55B8GAT8/WJmqGv5jMPI/AAAAAAAAVpQ/mvBXkPP9Y_YeyBeZotA3dhj8rO7JsfVDQCLcB/s1600/ds0zia5gzc4-nina-strehl%2B%2528640x427%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JNN55B8GAT8/WJmqGv5jMPI/AAAAAAAAVpQ/mvBXkPP9Y_YeyBeZotA3dhj8rO7JsfVDQCLcB/s640/ds0zia5gzc4-nina-strehl%2B%2528640x427%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hold on tight a little longer / What don't kill ya makes you stronger / Get back up, 'cause it's a hard love / You can't change without a fallout / It's gonna hurt, but don't you slow down / Get back up, 'cause it's a hard love. / — <i>NEEDTOBREATHE</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Confession: I don't love very well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh yes, I can blog about love quite spectacularly. I can eloquently write about love, and can even speak quite freely about living a life of love. But alas, when it comes to the doing...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">...I'm not very good at loving.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Such hypocrisy is really hard for me to swallow, because I honestly believe the things I blog and say. A life of holding grudges, harbouring hurts, and allowing bitterness to rule is not one you'll ever hear me endorse. I recognize clearly just how refining it is to allow the love of Christ flow through pain, and what freedom there is in forgiving those who hurt you. <i>Turn the other cheek, bless those who curse you, pray for those who use you, freely you have been forgiven, freely forgive; you will be known by your love, </i>etc. It all rings in my ears. I know it so well, I can recite it without even thinking. It's easy to do when everything is sailing along smoothly. Love comes so freely when everyone and everything is lovable. But as soon as life strikes:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A close friend lets you down and betrays your trust.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A family member says something they know will cut you deeply.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You are misunderstood by a loved one but they don't seem interested in trying to understand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Children get so rowdy that it pushes your patience to breaking point.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Loneliness strikes when you are feeling down, and selfishness wants to take over.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The past keeps knocking and you begin to see the future through the eyes of fear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Bitterness threatens to keep you from prayer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Seeing people praised openly for their accomplishments when you were ignored for yours.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Confiding in someone vulnerably only to have them treat you differently afterwards.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As soon as anything difficult hits me, the love in my heart seems to evaporate into thin air. Suddenly that warm, encompassing feeling of God's presence leaves, and instead I feel frustrated, hurting, and shockingly spiteful. I don't <i>want </i>to love you anymore. <b>You hurt me. </b>I want to run a hundred miles from you and hide. Take my bruised heart and lock it away so that you can't touch it again. But only on the inside. On the outside, <u><a href="http://bushmaid.blogspot.com.au/2013/06/removing-my-mask.html">I pull out my mask</a></u> and smile pleasantly. I say I forgive you. I let it go and go on like normal; wearing that face like armour—<i>Aha, you will believe I am happy because I want you to believe it, but never will you get past my smile to my heart again. </i></span><br />
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Not long ago, in the midst of one of these charades I was quite busily performing, a friend texted me a quote out of the blue that I knew very well, which was both the best—and the last—thing I wanted to hear.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” — <i>C.S. Lewis</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Eesh. Vulnerability. Though I truly do want to be forgiving, and I earnestly desire to let things go, sometimes the ugly vulnerable truth is <i>you hurt me, and I'm still hurting. </i>We think for the most part that letting things go is our problem to deal with, and so we try to swallow it down without realizing that sometimes the path to true forgiveness and real Love is not pretty. You see, what we Christians have done is instead of taking the raw, messy, ugly road of God's Love, we opt for the clean, shiny, cover-it-up version of what we <i>think </i>love is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This latter one, I am very good at. We tell ourselves that it is loving to let things go. To be peacekeepers and not rock the boat. We smile when we're dying on the inside, and listen quietly when our hearts are screaming at us. We hold back, we stuff our feelings down, we let ourselves be trampled on by our brothers and sisters in Christ, and they have no idea what they are doing to us. We sit down, shut up, and call it turning the other cheek. We tell ourselves not to be sensitive. We beat our souls into unoffendability, taking no thought for the fact that maybe God created us that way; you know: with <b>feelings. </b>We put on our brave Christian front and tell everyone we're "good", and by "we", I really mean "me". As tiresome as this version of love is, it's easier to do because it's safer. It holds people away from me. I can control the situation. I don't have to let people in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But this kind of love is not love.<b> It is pride. Pride to pretend that pretending to love is as good as loving. Pretending to be okay is as good as being okay. This is not love.</b> It's more like holding poison in your mouth and trying not to swallow without spitting it out. It either has to get messy, or it won't end well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hear me right: this isn't to say that we just blab everything we feel whenever we feel like it to whoever will listen. You can't just freely express everything within you at the expense of others. True honesty is selfless, not <i>selfish. </i>And this also isn't to say that there aren't very legitimate times when forgiveness must be a choice over a feeling, and that letting something go without getting closure isn't exactly what God wants. Quite the opposite. However oftentimes I believe we forget one little verse in Scripture when it comes to dealing with conflict and loving well:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If your fellow believer sins against you, go and tell him in private what he did wrong. If he listens to you, you have helped that person to be your brother or sister again. — <i>Matt. 18:15 NCV</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Love, God's love, does not ignore problems, it addresses them. We are called to go talk to those brothers and sisters who have wronged us, and be vulnerable. Just as God didn't turn a blind eye to our sin and pretend everything was okay, but entered into it, looked it fully in the eye and then dealt with it at the cross, so ought we handle our grievances with one another. <i>This </i>is loving well. Because often, <b>loving well is loving ugly, </b>and this is the kind of Love my flesh hates. You see, if I had <i>my </i>choice, my kind of love would be pretty safe. It wouldn't get ugly. If you hurt me, I'd just push it down, keep it wrapped up, maybe in a little box with a nice neat bow and smile politely at you next time I saw you (I'd probably pull it out in the meantime and stroke it and coddle it till it became a box of bitterness). But God's kind of Love... <i>Ha</i>, I've really got to laugh at it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because God's kind of love looked down at our mess and our sin, and my pride in my shiny self-image and entered into it. He didn't see my ugliness and say "dude, no way! I might get some of it on me." No, He took it on. He <i>became </i>that ugly on my behalf when He went and died an ugly messy death on that hideous cross. So now that He has done the ugliest thing for me, in order for Him to give me His beauty, I need to admit to my ugly. Which means I have to be honest. Which also means that in order for His perfect Love to have free reign in my life -</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">I need to show you my ugly too. </span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is hard Love, and though I suck at it, God is teaching me that His Love is sooo much better than my love.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">These past few months have had some of the most stretching, trying, heart-tearing, gut-wrenching conversations I've ever had where, instead of hiding my heart away and fake-loving, God challenged me to a hard, ugly love: exposing the scars of my soul to those who put the scars there and saying those bare-brave words, "you hurt me". Where I approached people with the truth and honesty of what my heart was really saying, even though it came out sounding ugly and awful. I let my heart be sensitive to painful words, and let myself feel them and bring them to God, open to the possible truth of them, though they left me feeling torn apart. Right now, if I'm honest, it's hard to see the good in it. My insides feel like they've been dismantled; a finished puzzle that has been broken apart into a thousand uncontrollable pieces. It's almost as though I'm losing control of me—in the best way—and letting God take control of what people know of me... that they might truly know why God is good, and see His goodness through the true and honest me—weaknesses, hurts and all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The hardest thing is knowing this is not a lesson once learnt. Vulnerability is not my natural state, and it takes constant wisdom from God to know when, where, who and how I should brave it up, and do this tough love gig with people. It's the beginning of my undoing, and yet in the distance, I can also taste that it is the beginning of my renewing; this constant discovery of who God intended me to be. It comforts my heart to know that I don't walk this road alone. Christ Himself walked the road of hardest Love: up the hill of Calvary.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am comforted by the fact that, though my flesh is incapable of this Love, Christ in me is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, put on tender mercies, kindness, humility, meekness, longsuffering; bearing with one another, and forgiving one another, if anyone has a complaint against another; even as Christ forgave you, so you also must do. But above all these things put on love, which is the bond of perfection. — <i>Col 3:12-14</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> We never think of perfection being messy, do we? Yet this is the way we are to love: with tender mercies, kindness, humility, longsuffering and bearing; all of this in truth and honesty. The humble are those who kneel, and if one kneels, there will be dirt. But Christ loves me in spite of my dirt, knowing that as I allow His Love to perfect me, I will see the dirt in others less and less, and at the same time be less and less afraid to speak the vulnerable truth with them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Will I still have my hypocritical days? My word, yes! I'll still have plenty of times I wear my old signature smile and you won't see my soul shine truthfully in my eyes. Though I may be a hypocrite, Jesus loves me and died for my hypocrisy, and I love Him so much for it. Hard Love isn't easy, but by faith in Christ, it is doable. So I ask you, please bear with me as I learn slowly the art of hard-loving.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I promise—with Christ's help—to bear with you too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Innocence, your history of silence / Won't do you any good / Did you think it would? / Let your words be anything but empty / Why don't you tell them the truth? / Honestly I wanna see you be brave. / — <i>Sara Bareilles</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b>Further Listening: </b><i><u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cKPF50T15w">Love is a Good Thing, Andrew Peterson</a></u></i></span>Jasmine Ruigrokhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01976708690026168727noreply@blogger.com6