Recycle!

recycle logo
Originally uploaded by TheTruthAboutMortgage.com.

Sometimes you watch things die.

For instance, the plant that's been on my parent's front porch for forever. It just recently took it's last gasp of chloryphyl and bit the dust...er, dirt. And now, it's a cracked plastic pot full-o' dry, vitamin-drained dirt. Not even bugs'll frequent it. The pot now inhabits the bottom of the garbage can, awaiting it's demise via the hands of the recycle folks...

Is that what happens when things die in my life? Do they sit and await recycling?

One thing I'm becoming more and more familiar with in this death sequence, is the sheer pain of it. Whether it's the death of a loved one or the death of a dream or death of an expectation or even death to yourself, your heart simply aches. And responding to this pain by dulling or numbing yourself only gives you a minute breather. The pain will find it's way to the surface. it's just a question of when or how. And when it does come. Wow. The sheer extreme of it.

Me? If you know me, you know I'm the "BRING IT ALL ON!" kinda' girl. Problematic in times like this. Seriously. Who can handle the pain of brokenness all at once?

Jesus cried blood.

And when I'm looking at it, talking with Him about it, I'm pretty close...which is pretty crazy really. I mean, I can't even deal with a little heart and life-break. Yet He dealt with the ultimate blow:

Separation from His Father.

Maybe that's why my pain's so poignent. I feel like we're separated. No matter how much I cry or scream or yell (and there's been plenty of it!), I feel like He's not there. I am thankful for the pain. I keep saying thank You for it. It helps me to understand Jesus a little more...to be like Him in His suffering (phil3)...to be intimate in those moments of understanding the slightest, most miniscule taste of what it was like for Him right before the cross. One thing that irks me about the whole thing is this: Jesus knew what to do. He knew He had to die and knew how to do it. I mean HE REALLY HAD THE MIND OF CHRIST. Me? I'm lost. Still trying to live out of the mind. Unsure of what next step to take. All the while I'm wanting my life to matter one moment while ready to simply go home and be with Him in the next. I find myself volleying prayers of: "Lord, just take me HOME" to "Ok. If I'm staying here, what do I do? I have to live a life of consequence..."

I recently went to a counselor friend for a session...thought I should get a few lessons on living OUTSIDE the desert. She had a bunch of good stuff to say, amidst the kids jumping on my back with sticky fingers from eating waffles. SIDENOTE: Seriously, I'm such a fan of my friends that have kids and can carry on deep conversations while a child screams of abuse at a brother bonking him on the head...SIDENOTE OVER. She said a lot of good stuff. I definitely recommend a counselor when you think you're going crazy. Oh. And if you think you're going crazy, you probably are not. Crazy people don't think they're crazy. So if you've never thought you're crazy, well....

One thing she said was I don't listen to my own voice. more on this later.

She also gave me 6 cd's of Charles Stanley's sermons on Brokenness. Turning the cd on in my car the next day, I heard that ol' southern preacher voice, reminiscent of driving to Chicago with my dad listening to his sermons as a wee little one. We'd always get to stop at Fannie May Candies when we went to Chicago...and I'd always get the little pink, peppermint meltaways. that was pre-chocolate addiction. Also, the peppermint meltaways were 1 of 2 things in the price range my dad would give us when we went into the store...we'd eat these and look across Lake Michigan with all it's smells...then we'd jump in the car and while fighting traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway, Dad would flip on a cassette tape of Charles...

I turned on the cd my friend gave me and immediately smelled something a little minty and a little muddy. Meanwhile, as he preached I realized, Stanley must have really good spies on his payroll. I mean, he was preaching directly from the pages of my journal. Punk. I don't need anymore conviction. I'm already semi-pro status at condemnation. maybe I should start by working on that huh? That whole, "There is therefore no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus" bit...I realized that conviction wasn't the end goal. As He spoke intimately to my heart, I realized I'm not alone in this. Whether they want to name it or not, everyone hits broken status.

It was a beautiful moment when Stanley named the space I inhabit: Brokenness. Somehow giving it a name helped me realize it too would have an end someday. I thought I was just slowly going crazy. (Some of you might still think this is the case! After all, I'm the girl that's had a steady prayer of "Lord, please eradicate the pride from my life...take it away never to return." i hear that's as bad as praying for patience.) But besides the naming of this space, he said this: "You may feel in your soul and emotions and spirit that He's not there. but you must know in your mind that He is, in fact, present in the midst of this." This confuses me. I understand the feeling of "where are YOU?!?" I have it almost every day, if not every moment of every day. I keep thinking of that cheesy poem that every mother had on a bookmark when I was a kid, "Footprints". Remember it? Something about footprints in the sand...and when we don't see footprints in the sand it's because He's carrying us. Bugger that. Not only do I not see footprints, but I don't feel Him carrying me either. Jesus really did have God abandon Him (some of you theologians might debate on this, but let me have a moment.). And here I am griping about the seeming lack of Him...so I keep saying a Thomas prayer of "I believe, help me beleive." And recetly, I've been able to go even farther, as I really do believe He's there...even though I can't see or feel Him Present or at work. And it's in those moments of believing He's there but not doing anything that I get mad. But anger is for another time...

After I realize He's there, sometimes I make myself realize (Actually, I think it's the Spirit in me) that it's all hinged on that whole love thing...

I was sitting the other night at my sister's...talking on the phone with pops. He said I needed to understand that God loves me no matter what...I remembered a friend of mine that fasted for 40 days. When I asked him what he learned from that time, he said, "Annetta, if I do nothing else in my life, He will still love me." My first reaction to him was, "That's it? 40 days without food and you're toting the punchline of a Billy Graham sermon?!? Dude. That sucks." But then, well, I realize, as always, that my first reaction is usually the shallow one. If I will just sit and think a minute, I'll realize my friend was saying way more than just John 3:16. Or was he? Really? All I have to do for the rest of my life is sit in His love? He'll still love me? Ok, ok. Those that are about to jump on soap boxes of obediance and needing to serve in His Kingdom; Those screaming something about works accompanying faith, well, BREATHE. I think he was right. If I do nothing else in my life, Jesus will still love me. The Father will still be on my team. His Spirit will still inhabit me. I will be healed. If I never teach another Bible study or lead worship...if I never have another conversation about Him, well, He will still love me. Plain and simple. He loves me. i don't have to do anthing. nothing. Nada. Zip. It's very difficult for me not to DO...I'm a doer. You evangelicals would say, I tend more towards Martha than Mary.

Wrap up? I want to go HOME to Him. But since He says stay, I should sit in His love.

He's got it under control far more than I ever would.

I just wish the recycle center would come take that ugly ol' pot...I'm ready for a new one.

Much love y'all...

Annetta

P.S. If you can't tell, my mind sits in Ecclesiastes a lot these days...go figure. And, I've spent a whole lotta' time with my Grandmother recently. She felt the need to delve into our whole family history so I'd never forget where I came from. A beautiful gift, to be sure. But a little melancholy as ghosts come out of closets and get a rightful hearing.