The road to salvation is paved with as many good intentions as the road to hell.
Basically, if you answer yes to a series of questions asked to you by a pastor, you are saved. With less than one year of church under my belt, I was answering yes because I knew that's what I was supposed to do. My mother, at that point, was gentle. She was in love with Jesus. It made her more loving herself, more understanding, more patient. She was, in deed and action, the best her that I'd ever seen. Even dad saw it, and at the time, he didn't see much past what he wanted to see. Jesus was powerful and we witnessed that power.
My home had not been the best place to grow up. I held resentment for many years because of that environment. Jesus Christ came in and changed my home environment. In that first year alone, we had a peace I had never experienced, a home that I was ready to go back to. I didn't have to stay late after school coming up with reasons to delay my journey. I could go home.
To say anything more would be telling the stories of those who should reveal their secrets themselves. But I want you to understand that when I say that Jesus changed everything, I mean everything.
As much as I wanted those changes to happen in me, something was off and it stayed off for a long time. I went to college, I studied more, I read stories that had some of the same accounts as the Bible and when I read them, instead of thinking that every society had their stories, I read them as validating what I was told in the Bible.
I began to have a personal relationship with God, who I had been taught for the past two years, when I was 19. It was during the summer after my first year. I'd gone to visit Cleveland, the home of the guy I was dating, for a few weeks before returning home. When I got home, I realized that all the resources I thought I had for school, I really didn't. So I spent a lot of time praying to the God I only knew of in word. One night, I finally broke down before God and said that I had nothing to offer and no reason to get what I prayed for, but that I knew none of that mattered if God wanted to bless me. I fell asleep in my tears and woke up the next day to answered prayer. God wanted to bless me and had. My gratefulness knew no bounds. That was the first time God communicated with me on a level that was nothing short of miraculous. It was the first time I actually felt the peace of God that so many people had spoken of. It filled me and became me and suddenly, I truly did not think as I once did or see as I once saw.
That's when I started to believe God could do anything and He wanted me along for the ride.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Church
When I was a little girl, I always wanted to go to church. Oh, we did the occasional Easter, me and my sister dressed in finery and lacy socks with black patent leather shoes, the boys uncomfortable in suits and clip on ties with shoes they would outgrow before the day was over.
When we moved, the summer after 6th grade, we moved to a house. Across the street from that house was a church. We never visited that church. I wanted to, longed to. On the times I actually woke up early on Sunday, I would sit and watch all the people go in. I was doing two forbidden things. Sitting in the living room and longing for church when it was not welcomed in our house.
I don't know if church began to grow in my mind from there. As I grew older and treasured my sleep, I was glad that we didn't do anything like that. When I could hide in bed reading on a Sunday afternoon instead of sweating it out in a service that didn't end until 3pm, I was grateful for our stance.
When I was 17, something happened. I don't know what happened, but suddenly, we were going to church. We went to the church that my dad's family had gone to for so long. Initially, we were welcomed with open arms. I approached church the same way I approached school. Learn as much as possible. Know more than anybody else. After all, this Bible was simply a book and what did I know better than anyone at my school? Books. So, in Sunday School, I knew every answer, read every assignment. Nothing was esoteric. Everything had a right or wrong answer. We played Bible Jeopardy and no one wanted to play against me, except the foolish people who had once dominated or the older people who thought they knew. They didn't know me. I won. I always won. Mothers wanted their daughters to look up to me. Mothers wanted their sons to marry me. I was a paragon and I was a fraud.
The day I was baptized, dressed in the white clothes, a towel over my hair, making a public statement that I had accepted Jesus into my heart, I was fervently praying that I had, in fact, accepted Christ into my heart. I took my dunking with grace, eyes closed, breath held, praying that when I came up, I would be different.
I was not. Everyone cheered and I went on perpetuating the fraud. And the more of a fraud I was, the more I saw it in others around me. We knew what we were doing. We were pretenders. We didn't know what else to do. We understood the Bible, we understood what had to happen, we just didn't know how it would happen to us. We holed up in our enclave of intellectual belief, hoping that one day, the love of Christ would grow in our hearts and we set to work convincing ourselves that, in fact, it had.
It would be two years before I actually understood what it meant to be saved.
When we moved, the summer after 6th grade, we moved to a house. Across the street from that house was a church. We never visited that church. I wanted to, longed to. On the times I actually woke up early on Sunday, I would sit and watch all the people go in. I was doing two forbidden things. Sitting in the living room and longing for church when it was not welcomed in our house.
I don't know if church began to grow in my mind from there. As I grew older and treasured my sleep, I was glad that we didn't do anything like that. When I could hide in bed reading on a Sunday afternoon instead of sweating it out in a service that didn't end until 3pm, I was grateful for our stance.
When I was 17, something happened. I don't know what happened, but suddenly, we were going to church. We went to the church that my dad's family had gone to for so long. Initially, we were welcomed with open arms. I approached church the same way I approached school. Learn as much as possible. Know more than anybody else. After all, this Bible was simply a book and what did I know better than anyone at my school? Books. So, in Sunday School, I knew every answer, read every assignment. Nothing was esoteric. Everything had a right or wrong answer. We played Bible Jeopardy and no one wanted to play against me, except the foolish people who had once dominated or the older people who thought they knew. They didn't know me. I won. I always won. Mothers wanted their daughters to look up to me. Mothers wanted their sons to marry me. I was a paragon and I was a fraud.
The day I was baptized, dressed in the white clothes, a towel over my hair, making a public statement that I had accepted Jesus into my heart, I was fervently praying that I had, in fact, accepted Christ into my heart. I took my dunking with grace, eyes closed, breath held, praying that when I came up, I would be different.
I was not. Everyone cheered and I went on perpetuating the fraud. And the more of a fraud I was, the more I saw it in others around me. We knew what we were doing. We were pretenders. We didn't know what else to do. We understood the Bible, we understood what had to happen, we just didn't know how it would happen to us. We holed up in our enclave of intellectual belief, hoping that one day, the love of Christ would grow in our hearts and we set to work convincing ourselves that, in fact, it had.
It would be two years before I actually understood what it meant to be saved.
What Can I Say?
Not much.
In a way, this has been a great holiday. I haven't worked since December 21st. I will go in for a bit tomorrow, but for the most part, I am off until Jan. 3. Our Christmas presents are ones we will open later. We saw some family, we saw some shows, we are planning on spending NYE listening to some bands in Atlanta and then hanging out with another couple - ice skating on Jan. 1.
I turn 32 on Jan. 2.
Last year, on Thanksgiving Day, my uncle Freddie told me that he had "a spot on his lung". Of course, having anything on the lungs is not a good thing. He told me not to worry. I saw him for Christmas and then, as I was planning to see him again (I usually go for my birthday, but I missed a couple of weeks), the day before I was going to head there (I had to plan my free time then), I got a call from my aunt telling me that he was dead.
What the hell??? I felt like I walked around in a cloud of confusion and I pushed the anger and sadness to the back of my mind. I hated going to sleep because when you're laying there in the dark, the only thoughts that come are the ones you spend the whole day pushing back.
This Thanksgiving, we decided that we were going to stay home for the first time, celebrating Thanksgiving as a family instead of shuffling between our families. So we make our phone calls and when I talk to my dad, he sounds like someone thought it would be fun to stump on his throat. I tell him he sounds horrible and I hope he's going to the doctor. I'm joking but I know. Even then, I know even though I know my dad would never tell me. The Wednesday after Thanksgiving, a day after his doctor appointment, my aunt called me to let me know that he had throat cancer. The kind caused by smoking and drinking for most of your life. Stage 4, caught late. I want to have hope, but I'm a worse case scenario person.
A tracheotomy, 3 of 5-7 days in the hospital, and disillusionment of my mother later, we are looking at a long haul for my dad. Chemotherapy, radiation, possibly losing his voicebox, and depending on the biopsy of the tumor, a few months to live. To my family, I only talk about the best case scenario. In a few days, we'll all know.
I don't know how I feel. I don't want comforting words. This isn't that type of post. This is just an update, this is what's been going on. It's not an easy thing for you to read or for me to write, but there it is.
In a way, this has been a great holiday. I haven't worked since December 21st. I will go in for a bit tomorrow, but for the most part, I am off until Jan. 3. Our Christmas presents are ones we will open later. We saw some family, we saw some shows, we are planning on spending NYE listening to some bands in Atlanta and then hanging out with another couple - ice skating on Jan. 1.
I turn 32 on Jan. 2.
Last year, on Thanksgiving Day, my uncle Freddie told me that he had "a spot on his lung". Of course, having anything on the lungs is not a good thing. He told me not to worry. I saw him for Christmas and then, as I was planning to see him again (I usually go for my birthday, but I missed a couple of weeks), the day before I was going to head there (I had to plan my free time then), I got a call from my aunt telling me that he was dead.
What the hell??? I felt like I walked around in a cloud of confusion and I pushed the anger and sadness to the back of my mind. I hated going to sleep because when you're laying there in the dark, the only thoughts that come are the ones you spend the whole day pushing back.
This Thanksgiving, we decided that we were going to stay home for the first time, celebrating Thanksgiving as a family instead of shuffling between our families. So we make our phone calls and when I talk to my dad, he sounds like someone thought it would be fun to stump on his throat. I tell him he sounds horrible and I hope he's going to the doctor. I'm joking but I know. Even then, I know even though I know my dad would never tell me. The Wednesday after Thanksgiving, a day after his doctor appointment, my aunt called me to let me know that he had throat cancer. The kind caused by smoking and drinking for most of your life. Stage 4, caught late. I want to have hope, but I'm a worse case scenario person.
A tracheotomy, 3 of 5-7 days in the hospital, and disillusionment of my mother later, we are looking at a long haul for my dad. Chemotherapy, radiation, possibly losing his voicebox, and depending on the biopsy of the tumor, a few months to live. To my family, I only talk about the best case scenario. In a few days, we'll all know.
I don't know how I feel. I don't want comforting words. This isn't that type of post. This is just an update, this is what's been going on. It's not an easy thing for you to read or for me to write, but there it is.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
L'Italia, qui vengo!
That's Babelfish English to Italian for "Italy, here I come!"
I am going to Italy, and if the price is right, I might also get to go to Paris. The next three months, I will be teaching myself Italian, saving every extra penny I make, working to make sure I have extra pennies by trying to get more work, etc.
Advice from The Honey, who won't be going... "Have fun in Italy. Don't fall for any Italian men. You know they're all criminals." "'Cause they're in the Mafia?" I ask. "Yes. Me, I paint with a broad brush. My brush covers all of Italy."
He didn't, however, say anything about Parisian men.
It is officially Christmas day. We are watching 24 hours of A Christmas Story. The Honey says, "You're going to watch this every Christmas, aren't you?" "Until they stop showing it," I respond. "And then, when they stop, you're going to complain about it on your blog."
That man knows me so well.
Merry Christmas, all!
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Hello God, Do You Remember Me?
Sometimes, I wonder what God remembers about our first moment of understanding him. Not that typical religious moment, or the moment when people first know one of his names, but that one moment of clarity when we who choose to believe in him first do, before the dogma and the tradition ruin what little of God we come to understand.
I think back to my first encounter with God. My first understanding of an encounter with God. I had to have been like 4 or 5 years old and my mama was reading to me from the big blue Bible Stories book, that book you see advertised in dentists' and doctors' offices all over the US. She was reading to me about God asking Abraham to sacrifice his only son, but I thought it said "oldest one" and so I wondered when God was going to ask my mama to sacrifice me to him. I think I lived in fear and trepidation for like two days, always looking skyward, wondering if he asked if she would and if she did, would he provide a ram for me? In the end, I just kind of said, "You better not ask my mama to sacrifice me!" and God and I had a tentatively good relationship. It wasn't bogged down with doing right, although I believe some of that former fear took up residence with God.
It's hard to explain, but I will try, for my own sake, to do so. There are many voices in my head. those of you who know me know this to be true. I don't know how many of you have had me ask you about something you said only to have it be a made up dialogue I've concocted. Well, in there amongst all the voices is God, sitting back, speaking every now and then, nudging every now and then and, for a long time, I enjoyed him there. But after a while, as life grew more hectic and I grew less free, I forgot he was there and moved through life with only that still, small voice speaking only occasionally.
As I grew, though, the thought and idea of God never left me. People say that we all have a "God shaped hole" in our hearts and our search for truth is a search for him. Maybe that's true. But the enjoyment of God in my head lead me to read more about God (god, gods, Allah, Zeus, Thor, Krishna, etc.) and that's when the idea of religion crept in.
I think back to my first encounter with God. My first understanding of an encounter with God. I had to have been like 4 or 5 years old and my mama was reading to me from the big blue Bible Stories book, that book you see advertised in dentists' and doctors' offices all over the US. She was reading to me about God asking Abraham to sacrifice his only son, but I thought it said "oldest one" and so I wondered when God was going to ask my mama to sacrifice me to him. I think I lived in fear and trepidation for like two days, always looking skyward, wondering if he asked if she would and if she did, would he provide a ram for me? In the end, I just kind of said, "You better not ask my mama to sacrifice me!" and God and I had a tentatively good relationship. It wasn't bogged down with doing right, although I believe some of that former fear took up residence with God.
It's hard to explain, but I will try, for my own sake, to do so. There are many voices in my head. those of you who know me know this to be true. I don't know how many of you have had me ask you about something you said only to have it be a made up dialogue I've concocted. Well, in there amongst all the voices is God, sitting back, speaking every now and then, nudging every now and then and, for a long time, I enjoyed him there. But after a while, as life grew more hectic and I grew less free, I forgot he was there and moved through life with only that still, small voice speaking only occasionally.
As I grew, though, the thought and idea of God never left me. People say that we all have a "God shaped hole" in our hearts and our search for truth is a search for him. Maybe that's true. But the enjoyment of God in my head lead me to read more about God (god, gods, Allah, Zeus, Thor, Krishna, etc.) and that's when the idea of religion crept in.
Starting Over
It's that time of year, the time when an old girl's fancy turns to age.
I'll be 32 in a couple of weeks and a few days. I'm not really sure what to do with that.
So, it's time for things to happen. We (the Honey and I) are in a growing phase of our lives, where everything as we know it has been turned on its head and we are rolling with some punches, making new plans and solidfying the ones we are keeping. It's not a rollercoaster, it's more like the Dumbo ride.
**********************************
So, starting over means more than just a few words here and there. It means I have things to do, places to go and stories to write about it. First off, I'm going to Italy. Now, when I say I'm going to Italy, I mean, I barely have enough for plane fare (and that is supplemented by my very, very, very, very smart little sister whose 4.0 GPA earned us an extra $1000 to use on our trip) and I have stopped crocheting my scarf long enough to write this blog. Yes, crocheting a scarf so that I can sell it for whatever I can make to add to my trip. And The Honey is being a really good sport about the idea of me going to Italy, but I know he wants to go to. It just, what's the easiest way to make $3000 in 2 months that doesn't include nude dancing or finding Robert Redford? I'm lining up a couple of jobs... I can work 3 hours a night at minimum wage as a janitor for approximately $60 bucks a week after taxes. I wanted to make about $100 extra dollars a week (not including what I make writing) to help with this little trip. But what I make writing and any extra I make would just pay for me. I'd have to write double what I'm writing now and The Honey and I together make $200 a week to supplement his going on the trip as well. I would say I'd pray about it, but that's another story in itself that will be told in bits and pieces in a remembering sort of way.
I feel a little bit like Italy will be about me finding myself. I know that sounds trite and kind of 21 year old angsty, but it's true. There are a lot of things I want to understand and it is hard to understand those things in the midst of the bustle of life. It's not impossible. I don't need Italy for that, but my dream has always been to go to Europe. Italy, and just outside of Rome, is a good enough place as any to start. We may even fly into Paris so that we see France and Italy. To be able to grab that dream when it was offered... it's amazing. I have an amazing husband who would sacrifice his time with me and his wish to be there as well to see my dreams take place.
Okay, so enough smarmy.
The house we live in now, I love it. The one thing it has that is in part cool and in part very irritating is the scary house lights. When you turn on the lights in this house, they flicker on, as if you were watching a scary movie and the lights got doused in water and now you're watching them flicker, expecting to see the killer or his shadow right in front of you. Very creepy. Oh, I know it's some technical name for why it does that, having to do with temperature and something that reminds me of striking a lighter, but for right now, it is a neat way to be greeted by your house.
I'll be 32 in a couple of weeks and a few days. I'm not really sure what to do with that.
So, it's time for things to happen. We (the Honey and I) are in a growing phase of our lives, where everything as we know it has been turned on its head and we are rolling with some punches, making new plans and solidfying the ones we are keeping. It's not a rollercoaster, it's more like the Dumbo ride.
**********************************
So, starting over means more than just a few words here and there. It means I have things to do, places to go and stories to write about it. First off, I'm going to Italy. Now, when I say I'm going to Italy, I mean, I barely have enough for plane fare (and that is supplemented by my very, very, very, very smart little sister whose 4.0 GPA earned us an extra $1000 to use on our trip) and I have stopped crocheting my scarf long enough to write this blog. Yes, crocheting a scarf so that I can sell it for whatever I can make to add to my trip. And The Honey is being a really good sport about the idea of me going to Italy, but I know he wants to go to. It just, what's the easiest way to make $3000 in 2 months that doesn't include nude dancing or finding Robert Redford? I'm lining up a couple of jobs... I can work 3 hours a night at minimum wage as a janitor for approximately $60 bucks a week after taxes. I wanted to make about $100 extra dollars a week (not including what I make writing) to help with this little trip. But what I make writing and any extra I make would just pay for me. I'd have to write double what I'm writing now and The Honey and I together make $200 a week to supplement his going on the trip as well. I would say I'd pray about it, but that's another story in itself that will be told in bits and pieces in a remembering sort of way.
I feel a little bit like Italy will be about me finding myself. I know that sounds trite and kind of 21 year old angsty, but it's true. There are a lot of things I want to understand and it is hard to understand those things in the midst of the bustle of life. It's not impossible. I don't need Italy for that, but my dream has always been to go to Europe. Italy, and just outside of Rome, is a good enough place as any to start. We may even fly into Paris so that we see France and Italy. To be able to grab that dream when it was offered... it's amazing. I have an amazing husband who would sacrifice his time with me and his wish to be there as well to see my dreams take place.
Okay, so enough smarmy.
The house we live in now, I love it. The one thing it has that is in part cool and in part very irritating is the scary house lights. When you turn on the lights in this house, they flicker on, as if you were watching a scary movie and the lights got doused in water and now you're watching them flicker, expecting to see the killer or his shadow right in front of you. Very creepy. Oh, I know it's some technical name for why it does that, having to do with temperature and something that reminds me of striking a lighter, but for right now, it is a neat way to be greeted by your house.
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