Faith: Experience vs. Education

     This post already has the air of formality and wisdom, doesn't it?   Do you know how I did that?  I prepped you.  I put two four syllable words in the title on both sides of a 'vs'.  Now, I'm not sure that's an exact technique they teach in marketing class but you learn over the years that certain words and phrases catch the eye and leave the reader curious enough to want to know more,  entertained enough to want to laugh further or outraged enough to keep reading in order to form his/her own counterpoint.  It's manipulation in print.

Welcome to politics.
Welcome to the world of business.
Welcome to Bible study!

     I once told a friend of mine that he made a great preacher.  He was humble and honest and faithful and you could tell from the pews that his intentions were to share the love he had been shown.  He felt inadequate for not having had any formal training from a bible college.  Having been the wife of a bible college student I told him, 'Bible school isn't where you learn about God.  It's where you learn how to sell Him."  It seems I'm very wise.

     And before I go further I want to state as fact that I love my God.  I love His Word as well and there are very few things in this world that disgust me more than seeing either of them misused or misrepresented.  I don't believe any form of manipulation is appropriate or necessary to get the point of God's love across to an audience.  I cringe at women centered studies which always seem focused on emotional pleas and flower printed cries of confession and outpouring gushes of sisterhood.  Yech!  I feel manipulated again.  And after it's all said and done and the study or conference or small group is over we go back home, sometimes reread, recry and pray about what we've heard, and more often than not change is not present.  Things don't change in your life when you're manipulated.  Do you know why?  Because you're smarter than you probably think, and not always in a way that helps you.  You've picked up on the forced emotional trigger and because you've played your part by reacting in the predictable way (gasps, sobs, looks of shock and disgust) nothing more is required of you.  You've participated, have been affected, shook hands with the speaker or leader on the way out and exchanged comments on the importance of the lesson or sermon.

     If you really want change, you need to seek it out yourself.  To know God you must engage Him.  Call Him out!  He's there, waiting for the smoke of advice-givers, study notes, and all other means of distraction to clear out of the way so you can experience Him personally.

     So here's my point, which perhaps I just should have started with in order to save you my rant;  Knowledge is not faith.  Forced emotional breakdowns do not represent growth.  No one's inspired sermon, life story or personal transformation will grant you a closeness to God by having been present during its recitation.  Notches on your bible study notebook mean nothing.....IF you in any way believe that they get you closer to God.  You can not know Him more by reading, even if you're reading in order to recognize Him.  And really, if you think about it, does that make sense to you now that you've read it here?   If you believe you were created by Him for a personal and utterly unique relationship between the two of you, how is it that we seem to labor under the delusion that outside means and introductions are necessary for our knowing Him?

     We find God by trusting Him.  There is no other way.  Action will always be the path to a relationship with a god who asks you to seek after Him.

'And to His leg I cling, eternally pressing my face to His calf to keep from looking behind me.'


I found this in the middle of my notebook in the middle of another night. I started scanning my recall to find the event that at one time had me spiritually in a heap on the floor, hiding behind the only sure and steady constant in my life........ God's enormous, extremely human looking leg. At least that's how I pictured it when I wrote the above. That, I remember. I remember how I felt and in what my soul found perseverance, safety, and comfort.

Let me explain.

When I was little, my visual personification of what God must've looked like took the shape of a huge bare foot firmly planted on Earth (in my backyard more specifically) with the robe draped leg extending up until just above his knee, where the clouds took over.

Where do you even begin to analyze this one?

Let's start here.....
Why my backyard?

It was where I was and I was taught that God was always with me. Easy enough.
Also, my backyard was the biggest thing I could imagine. There were still hedgerow boundaries (much like my mind at the time) but it was 'God-big'. After all, why would He have to be bigger than that?

Next........
Why just a foot? Why not the whole 'He' crouched between mom's garden and the playhouse Daddy built?

This one runs a little deeper and I'm not even sure I can find the answer. I could never imagine a whole 'He'. Just pieces, like a foot. It wasn't for lack of imagination! I could sit and play board games with the guy (I would roll the dice for His turns, of course.) And I never hesitated to whisper His name knowing full well that His ears were good enough to hear my voice even when I was really, really quiet. I grew up talking to Him as if he shared the Pepto-Bismol pink room with me, yet I could never bring myself to imagine more than the calf/ankle/ tootsies part any time I tried to put a picture to it all. I guess maybe it did hit the parameters of my imagination. (And yes, it was a foot on the other side of the game board with His leg extending through my ceiling. Why else do you think I had to roll for Him?)

Sadly, as an adult it doesn't seem my imagination has stretched much, does it?

The image of clinging to God ends there, at His leg, even if I try to picture more.

I've lived through.....well, 'I've lived through' is statement enough. And looking back at it all I can see that I've almost instinctively leaned on God for the majority of my life. It started as childhood faith; trust that what my parent's taught me was true. As a teen, when I tried to get away from anything my parents stood for I found myself running but always looking behind me to make sure God was keeping up. And now as an active Christian woman, the leg is my first refuge. Like I said, I feel it as an instinct. I consider it a unique gift. I don't meet many people who see God the way I do. (Except perhaps the writers of Monty Python :)

'Clinging to His leg' is only the first part of the statement, though.

I pressed my face to His calf to keep from looking behind me. Wow! In an action that mirrors a shaken woman holding tightly to her protector, hiding her face in his chest until the evil has gone, I realize.... I watch a lot of movies. Does this even happen?!? Usually, in reality when 'evil is nigh' people are clawing and fighting and running! Not clinging to another person in full faith that the wave of destruction is just going to stop at the sheer presence of this untouchable wall of a man, protecting the fragile clinging woman. Too many movies, it would seem. But don't miss this! I'm pressing my face to his calf to keep myself from looking behind me. I remember this, now!
I'm actively pushing my cheek, so much that my imagination can feel the pressure on my face, in an attempt to keep my head from turning where it continues to want to look; to my past!

I don't give much detail in these blog posts about how I used to live my life. But I'll break regular form for a minute and throw you a metaphorical glimpse. There was a time when it felt as if I had a genie in a bottle. Everything I had ever dreamed of having, I was given. But it was tainted and when I let God open my eyes to it I could see that it was no genie, that my dreams were vain and destructive, and that I had fallen so deeply into the trap, the time of escape was quickly passing me by. So I looked up from the bottom of this pit of self-indulgence and grabbed the rope that was almost out of my reach. God pulled me up and I'd like to say I haven't looked back since but obviously that's not true. Otherwise I wouldn't be curled up, cutting off the circulation to God's leg with the pressure of my turn-tempted head.

If I've ever been addicted to anything, it would be to 'me'.

Awww, poor little girl! Not drugs, alcohol or gambling! The poor thing is addicted to herself! Let's drop all these support groups and funding and focus on Crissy who is really in trouble!

Yeah, and that's the guilt that follows when I'm reminded of the superficial nature of my nature. But I'm cursed with constant introspection (or self-scrutiny if you really want to put a picture to it) and it's what I've figured out about myself. That, of course, being half the addiction!
It's a subtle sin. Not one anyone else would notice, when I have it under control, but only I know that I'm fighting. It's a lonely sin. It involves a universe in which I exist to perpetuate the existence of said universe. And I'm aware of it. Which, once again, is where 'the leg' comes into the scene. A self created universe can exist without God's presence only if He's not invited. (I'd use the analogy of 'A vampire can only enter your house if you invite him in' but it seems somehow vulgar, so I won't) So I invite Him and He stands between me and the wave of destruction that actually will stop at this untouchable wall of .....well, a foot....and protects the fragile clinging woman.

It's the story of my life...... that phrase I began this blog post with, and I stumbled upon it while randomly leafing through my notebook. It stood alone on the top of the page, waiting for me to find it when I needed it. That's the story of my life, too.

Moments of waste; Value eternal.

While walking through the days with Time on my heels, tapping my shoulder now and again, my thoughts consistently loom over the optimism of death. It's so often been my hope, the promise of 'now' not being my future, but 'then'.

Difficult my cage that binds me far beneath my shelter.
The Curse, knowledge seeing infinite within finality.
Left disappointed, God looks down on me;

"Gifts of love beyond the finite?
Purpose no immortal soul could bear?
Graciousless you curse the skin I've wrapped you in!"

As angels look on my life with envy, I stumble to find my role in a chaotic realm.
A perfect life lies waiting for me to pick it up; not beyond the veil but within the imperfection in which I'm cast.
An immortal soul tainted with mortality, is me.
A haggard weed given the chance to bloom and flourish in a barren land.
Being fed Almighty wisdom and watered with the promise of value, I repent and gorge on His sustenance.
Shortsightedness had blinded me again.
Is forever how long it will take me to learn His love?

The life of my pens.

They trip me. Purposefully I think, so I put them back in the container under the bed. There they can be still. And I reach for a stick of gum, only to pull out a pen. I reach for the keys and the pen falls out instead. One rolls off the Bible on the bedstand. Another, refusing to give up it's home on the floor, rolls around feet for weeks. They taunt me. I haven't used them in months. We haven't spent time together since the days when they were all I had left. We had a shared purpose in those days of suffering and loss. My soul clung to it's owner and we held on together; together with the pens.

I think they've gotten lonely. I can almost hear them whining for attention. Lonely pens of a writer. Is there anything more sad? And ironically they hold so much more potential for purpose now that they are not all that reside in my purse, glove compartment, side car door panel, back jeans pocket. They comingle with a paycheck. They sit beside jingling car keys. The bed that has the blanket and a pillow; they get lost in the covers when I intend to spend time with them but fall asleep instead. No wonder they whine! They have so many praises to express! Blessings to proclaim!

Ohhhh! Okay, guys! I get it. Gone are the days of writing from suffering. The days of praise are here!

What would a writer do without her pens?

Faith goes camping.

.theenemylurks.
Once again night comes creeping up to, over, and beyond where I'm sitting. But I'm not sitting by a window anymore; it's no longer mine to enjoy. And I will not be the fortunate recipient of spontaneous purring; they have laps to warm or crickets to chase elsewhere. They are no longer mine to love. I don't bother bending my ear for the sound of the car pulling up bringing my love to the front door. No motor. No door. They are no longer ours to use. Each aspect and detail chipped away at for months, than weeks, now days. So I sit in silence with Jesus on borrowed camp chairs and use a paper plate to write the musings of a broken woman. And He smiles and corrects my phrasing.

" A chipped woman is not broken but worn," He reminds.

"Good point!", I reply.

A chip from betrayal that no glue can ever properly mend.
One from brokenheartedness at the parting of ways from dear loved ones.
And still another from being dropped when no one was brave enough to reach out and catch.
.theenemylurks.

But then...and unmarred dish is an unused one. An unused dish is merely decoration and I never was much for plates on walls.

And my attention diverts again to where I pretend I can see Him sitting. I study His face and notice that He's chipped too. His brows carry concern for his constanly disloyal children.
His eyes bear the tint of the ever fresh memory of loss. And His shoulders seem weighed down with remorse at the opportunities passed over by those called to serve. We are sorrowful together by the ring from which I can only coax smoke. We share our concerns. And we watch the days approaching when those serving now will confront their own walls of uncertainty only to stand on this side of faith for the rest of their mortal given time.
.theenemylurks.

He reminds me, as always, that sorrow is appropriate but it never walks alone. And He instructs me to look around, as always, and I do. And we smile together at the humble campsite littered with faithfully supplied gifts from a friend most overlook as faithful. And I see the tent that houses arms that grow tighter every night. And I remember the choices and responses that landed us where we are. And I swell with pride and confidence. We did what He taught us to.
.theenemylurks.

A road has been blocked. Our lives are new with possibilities; but I fear the plateau. We are in a difficult place, yes, but it remains at the same difficulty. For the past 7 months we have lost little by little until all but each other and some useless piles of possessions housed in a house of His could be called 'ours'. And now we've leveled out. We didn't lose anything yesterday and it almost frightens me. All we have is each other. Are we being prepared for us to begin gaining again, or the opposite? Are we being prepared for the worst?
.theenemylurks.....but I already know his defeat.

The Way I Pray

I'm going to change the way I pray. And this is not about knees or hands or volume. The content of my prayers has been immature....rather, the content of my prayers has been redundant.

"Please protect us."

I always have.

"Please provide."

I always do.

"Please show us the way."

When have I ever mislead you?

He stops me in mid sentence with His replies. He has halted my prayers. In short, He's calling me out. Have you ever felt this way? Frustrated, knowing you need to grow to the next step or you'll flounder....useless and ineffective. Believing you are searching for something only to be confronted with the reality that your search is a hoax. A good hoax, fooling yourself along with everyone else. The thought of a passionate search allays your fears as well as encourages others of your faith. But you've already been given the answers to all of your questions. You are at the end of this search and you know it.

My truth is my family's truth. Suffering is coming. We know it and He knows it and He's going to allow it. We must be strong enough to handle it or it wouldn't be headed our way. My prayers were my fallback and assurance...and He won't allow them anymore. I'm no longer suppossed to ask but am expected to act. My prayers are no longer pleadings for faith but have become actions of holding His hand and walking forward.

I've changed the way I pray.

My life is a novel.
Sometimes comedy, sometimes drama and even into the realms of science fiction it sometimes seems to travel. There is an author and He's brilliant. He marks the bottoms of my shoes with ink and lets me run away on whatever path I desire...but He has a road drawn out that He wants me to follow. I'm often afraid on this road because of the shadows. The turns are so sharp that the shadows swallow up the path. I step because the road is always there, but I still fear the shadows. And my feet try to follow the penned lines lovingly leading me but my footprints mark up the burm and often stumble into the other lane. The pages are smeared with my missteps.
My life is a novel.

Tonight we followed the road. All year we have followed the road faithfully but tonight we have found ourselves alone, with Him. Actually, Him and two. Two faithful children that know of our struggles and our mutual desire for nothing more than His will. And I love them. And I thank Him for them. But the two are set as a reminder of the smallness of the number. There used to be many. There used to be much. The much slowly dwindled away but we knew we didn't need much, so we didn't miss it. We didn't expect the many to dwindle to two, however, and it caught us off guard. We felt the loss. But He picked us up again, placed us in the presence of the two and left us to praise Him for His goodness, together. And we did. And we do. And we will.
And our feet continue on the path although it is all shadow now. We can't see the road or feel it under our shoes, but we can smell the pen marks. The author never leaves His characters without a path to follow. That's what makes it a worthy story and Him a crafted creator.