Punting Perfection
Jesus told him, “If you want to be perfect, go and sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
Matthew 19:21 NLT
Wasn’t it that great philosopher, Andy Warhol, who once said, “Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes?” The culture we live in flaunts the importance of popularity, fame and money without apology. Everyone, it seems, has a desire for notoriety. In truth, I think it’s an innate yearning to be worshipped. I wouldn’t doubt it’s that same fatal flaw that sent Lucifer careening out of Heaven’s door a millennia ago.
American Idol, and every other reality television show, sends the same deliberate message- you’re nobody unless you’re somebody.
As painful as it is for me to admit, I’ve entertained the same dream as a million others- to have my name up in lights, my own television show, to sell a gazillion records and accomplish great things.
Not long ago, Pastor Tommy stopped me as I was heading out the door after church and said something that made me take pause. “You’ve always wanted your life to count, Tamra, to do something of value, to be someone others could admire. But, let me challenge you with this: live a life of significance rather than importance.”
I actually went home and looked up those two words in my Webster’s dictionary. Significance expresses a life full of value or worth…Importance relates more to having power or authority. I wasn’t sure why Pastor Tommy felt the need to share his thoughts with me. I’ve always thought that my life had been centered on the idea of helping others. I write books, I compose music and sing songs. Somehow this seemed to me the perfect path by which to touch lives for Jesus. But perhaps the motivation of the heart is really the issue in question. I don’t know about you, but sometimes it takes a while for me to find the light switch. If our goal is the praise and admiration of those around us, then we may find exactly what we’re looking for: importance. But if our intent is to have the heart and character of God
revealed in and through our lives, and to have our words and actions reflect the love of God above all else, then we will live a life of significance.
There aren’t many kudos for the prayer warrior who spends hours on his or her knees before God. There’s no mob of screaming fans for the woman who takes dinner to the widow, and yet Jesus said, “As you do this unto one of these, you do this unto me.”
I believe pride is the obstacle that stands in the way of our ability to live that life of significance Pastor Tommy spoke of. We see ourselves in the light of human understanding and often place values on our lives that are predicated by world views. However, there comes a time in the life of every true seeker of God, when he or she must lay down all that we think we are and all that we hope to be, in order to be transformed into that vessel that God has planned us to be before the foundations of the world.
I remember the moment when I came to the painful realization that I would never accomplish the level of greatness I thought I was entitled to. I would likely never stand on a stage and sing for thousands of people, or have my name in lights on Broadway.
The sense of failure that overwhelmed me was palatable and I experienced a feeling of great loss, almost like a death. The transformation of a dream is often accompanied by a deep sense of bereavement. Yet out of death comes rebirth and an opportunity to explore avenues we never previously considered. The Lord’s definition of our perfection is entirely different than our own, and often requires the relinquishment of our hopes and dreams in order to see His plan unfold.
After months of dealing with my sense of loss, I was prepared to ask the difficult questions. What motivates me? What makes me feel important? What defines me? Why do I have these talents and for what purpose do I use them? In truth, the answers surprised me. I was motivated by the accolades of others. I felt important when I was appreciated for my talents. I realized I was defined not by who I am, but by what I do.
And these acknowledgements brought me to the foot of the cross of Christ. It was there that I laid down my abilities, my talents, my dreams and goals and requested God’s heart in my journey. I wanted Jesus to redefine me, and to make this vessel of human clay into the work of art He desired to look upon. It was a huge step of faith, and not one I took without great thought and consideration. Once we relinquish our definition of self, and offer it up, then we must be redefined by the One receiving our sacrifice. Since we’re not exactly sure what form that new individual will take, it’s a bit frightening.
Here’s what I know for sure- nothing is wasted with God! He uses every gift and talent He’s given us, perhaps in different venues than we would like or hope, but He utilizes those unique and individual endowments in ways we can’t imagine. It’s much like giving up a cubic zirconium to receive a flawless diamond.
I can say with absolute certainty that I have no disappointment in the path I now walk. When Jesus told the rich, young ruler to sell all his possessions and give all he had to the poor, He was really asking him to trade the life he knew for a far more perfect existence. Today, I find myself grateful to be living this life of significance, rather than importance, and I can’t tell you how satisfying it is to understand the difference.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Perfectly Planned
Punting Perfection
God is my strong fortress and he makes my way perfect. Second Samuel 22:3
Do you understand how he moves the clouds with wonderful perfection and skill? Job 37:16 NLT
I don’t know about you, but I’m a real control freak. I’m the type of individual who has to know exactly what’s going on, where the road leads and what will be the outcome. I drive my husband to the edge of insanity, with the need to have our vacations carefully ordered and every day planned to the near minute. He thinks I’m a micro-manager, and I think he’s disorganized. And somehow we’ve learned to deal with our idiosyncrasies.
One summer we escaped the Florida humidity with a trip to Colorado. As I breathed in the cool mountain air, and let my eyes feast on the majesty of the Rockies, I could feel the tension melt away. The drive from Denver to Beaver Creek is beautiful with winding roads, tight turns, and daring drop offs.
This particular trip Jim wanted to do some paragliding. I’d never even heard of paragliding, and looked at him with the usual skepticism. He said, “Don’t worry Hon, you’ll love this. It will be a great adventure for the family.” I always know when he says things like that, and doesn’t bother to elaborate on the details that I’m going to be involved in something I don’t want to be.
The drive up the mountain for the paragliding adventure was inordinately steep, so I tried to keep my mind occupied with the massive green trees, and little furry animals scurrying about the bushes. It seemed to take forever to get there, but when we finally arrived we were greeted by three mountain-men, complete with the hairy beards, back-pack equipment and well-worn hiking boots. I was already getting nervous, my breathing coming in short fast spurts. Of course, that could have been from the altitude in preparation for what was to come.
Meg and Jordan were following close behind the guides, excited about the prospect of experiencing something completely new, and I was tagging behind saying the Lord’s Prayer. Jim was up front asking a lot of questions and glancing back at me with a smile of assurance. Let me tell you, I felt anything but assured! As we arrived at the peak and I got a look at the tiny, bug- sized cars in the valley far below, I swallowed hard and fought to keep my composure.
“We’re going to do what?” I asked incredulously. Jim stepped back- a very wise maneuver, and allowed Mike, Mountain-man Number One to do all the talking.
“You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Nashman.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes, please, if we’re going to be this near death, by all means call me Tamra.”
“I’ve been paragliding for years, and it’s quite easy to do. You merely run toward the edge of the cliff, the chute will inflate and allow the wind to pick you up and carry you. It’s like a bird. You’ll just float off the mountain.”
At this point I was absolutely speechless. All sorts of thoughts were running through my head: Is our life insurance premium up to date? Who will take care of the kids when I’m dead? And what about the laundry; no one does the laundry but me. You see, I’m a very pragmatic woman, not inclined to take crazy life-threatening risks. I looked over at the kids, faces full of wild anticipation, nodding affirmatively at me, like I should accept my fate without question.
“There is absolutely no way I’m running toward a two thousand foot drop- off and trusting the wind to pick me up and carry me. Are you completely out of your mind? Come on kids, we’re out of here.” I turned on my heels and headed back toward the car.
“Babe, wait a minute,..you can just watch us take a turn, then you can decide if you want to do it or not.”
“You expect me to watch while my babies run off the side of a mountain?” Now I was getting very angry at my husband for this monumental assumption.
While we were arguing, halfway back to the car, my kids were getting suited up for the flight. Jim took my arm and gently led me back to the launch point. Meg was set to go, her helmet on, her safety harness strapped to her body and legs, and the instructor suited up behind her. Fortunately, it was to be a tandem ride, so that was comforting to me. Somewhat.
Mountain Man Mike waited until the wind was just right then counted off: “One, two, three, go! Run, Run, don’t stop!” And I saw my baby girl pulling with all her might as the huge wing-like canopy lifted in the wind, and raised them off the ground just as their feet hit the edge of the precipice. I crumbled in a heap on the ground, watching in absolute wonder as they floated gracefully through the air, gently moving with the currents of the wind. For twenty minutes I watched them make circles and melt into the clouds, the gold and white canopy angling and soaring with the airstreams.
Next it was Jordan’s turn, and he ran off that mountain like he was taking a jog in the park. “No problem, Mom!’ he shouted as he waved with glee. All this time, I never took a breath and my finger nails were blue from a lack of oxygen. Jim turned to me, pleased with himself for this latest adventure. “See, Hon, it’s no big deal. You can do this.” And I fainted, right where I stood.
It took me three days to get up the courage to strap on that gear and prepare to jump off the mountain ledge. As Mike was suiting me up I was crying, the tears streaming down my cheeks, explaining to Meagan the location of my gold necklace tucked away in the bedroom drawer at home, should I never see her again. Poor Mountain Man Mike had to explain every strap, buckle and harness to me in vivid detail as it was being placed around my body. I must have asked a hundred questions before we took our stance waiting for the perfect gust of wind. And when it came I ran harder than I’ve ever run in my life, and before I knew it I was airborne, floating weightless through the sky. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever done. Finally I understood why my daredevil husband wanted me to experience it.
While I was carried through the air, no sound but the wind moving in the canopy above us, I began to think about my life and my obsessive need to know every step of the journey. Near death experiences have the fortunate side effect of introspection. My dream was to become a professional musician, travel the world, sing and play and make albums for millions of people to hear. That was the journey I planned to take. But here I am, a woman who writes books and shares her stories with people for the purpose of spiritual inspiration and encouragement. Not exactly how I expected God to use me. However, in relinquishing control to Him, and laying down my perfect plan, I have found great fulfillment and deep- seated peace. My joy is in the knowledge that I’m on the path Jesus choose for me, long before I took my first breath. I can rest in the understanding that His way is flawless. And I can trust Him to carry me through my life journey as completely as I can trust him while floating from a canopy off the side of a mountain. It’s all in His perfectly capable hands.
God is my strong fortress and he makes my way perfect. Second Samuel 22:3
Do you understand how he moves the clouds with wonderful perfection and skill? Job 37:16 NLT
I don’t know about you, but I’m a real control freak. I’m the type of individual who has to know exactly what’s going on, where the road leads and what will be the outcome. I drive my husband to the edge of insanity, with the need to have our vacations carefully ordered and every day planned to the near minute. He thinks I’m a micro-manager, and I think he’s disorganized. And somehow we’ve learned to deal with our idiosyncrasies.
One summer we escaped the Florida humidity with a trip to Colorado. As I breathed in the cool mountain air, and let my eyes feast on the majesty of the Rockies, I could feel the tension melt away. The drive from Denver to Beaver Creek is beautiful with winding roads, tight turns, and daring drop offs.
This particular trip Jim wanted to do some paragliding. I’d never even heard of paragliding, and looked at him with the usual skepticism. He said, “Don’t worry Hon, you’ll love this. It will be a great adventure for the family.” I always know when he says things like that, and doesn’t bother to elaborate on the details that I’m going to be involved in something I don’t want to be.
The drive up the mountain for the paragliding adventure was inordinately steep, so I tried to keep my mind occupied with the massive green trees, and little furry animals scurrying about the bushes. It seemed to take forever to get there, but when we finally arrived we were greeted by three mountain-men, complete with the hairy beards, back-pack equipment and well-worn hiking boots. I was already getting nervous, my breathing coming in short fast spurts. Of course, that could have been from the altitude in preparation for what was to come.
Meg and Jordan were following close behind the guides, excited about the prospect of experiencing something completely new, and I was tagging behind saying the Lord’s Prayer. Jim was up front asking a lot of questions and glancing back at me with a smile of assurance. Let me tell you, I felt anything but assured! As we arrived at the peak and I got a look at the tiny, bug- sized cars in the valley far below, I swallowed hard and fought to keep my composure.
“We’re going to do what?” I asked incredulously. Jim stepped back- a very wise maneuver, and allowed Mike, Mountain-man Number One to do all the talking.
“You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Nashman.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes, please, if we’re going to be this near death, by all means call me Tamra.”
“I’ve been paragliding for years, and it’s quite easy to do. You merely run toward the edge of the cliff, the chute will inflate and allow the wind to pick you up and carry you. It’s like a bird. You’ll just float off the mountain.”
At this point I was absolutely speechless. All sorts of thoughts were running through my head: Is our life insurance premium up to date? Who will take care of the kids when I’m dead? And what about the laundry; no one does the laundry but me. You see, I’m a very pragmatic woman, not inclined to take crazy life-threatening risks. I looked over at the kids, faces full of wild anticipation, nodding affirmatively at me, like I should accept my fate without question.
“There is absolutely no way I’m running toward a two thousand foot drop- off and trusting the wind to pick me up and carry me. Are you completely out of your mind? Come on kids, we’re out of here.” I turned on my heels and headed back toward the car.
“Babe, wait a minute,..you can just watch us take a turn, then you can decide if you want to do it or not.”
“You expect me to watch while my babies run off the side of a mountain?” Now I was getting very angry at my husband for this monumental assumption.
While we were arguing, halfway back to the car, my kids were getting suited up for the flight. Jim took my arm and gently led me back to the launch point. Meg was set to go, her helmet on, her safety harness strapped to her body and legs, and the instructor suited up behind her. Fortunately, it was to be a tandem ride, so that was comforting to me. Somewhat.
Mountain Man Mike waited until the wind was just right then counted off: “One, two, three, go! Run, Run, don’t stop!” And I saw my baby girl pulling with all her might as the huge wing-like canopy lifted in the wind, and raised them off the ground just as their feet hit the edge of the precipice. I crumbled in a heap on the ground, watching in absolute wonder as they floated gracefully through the air, gently moving with the currents of the wind. For twenty minutes I watched them make circles and melt into the clouds, the gold and white canopy angling and soaring with the airstreams.
Next it was Jordan’s turn, and he ran off that mountain like he was taking a jog in the park. “No problem, Mom!’ he shouted as he waved with glee. All this time, I never took a breath and my finger nails were blue from a lack of oxygen. Jim turned to me, pleased with himself for this latest adventure. “See, Hon, it’s no big deal. You can do this.” And I fainted, right where I stood.
It took me three days to get up the courage to strap on that gear and prepare to jump off the mountain ledge. As Mike was suiting me up I was crying, the tears streaming down my cheeks, explaining to Meagan the location of my gold necklace tucked away in the bedroom drawer at home, should I never see her again. Poor Mountain Man Mike had to explain every strap, buckle and harness to me in vivid detail as it was being placed around my body. I must have asked a hundred questions before we took our stance waiting for the perfect gust of wind. And when it came I ran harder than I’ve ever run in my life, and before I knew it I was airborne, floating weightless through the sky. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever done. Finally I understood why my daredevil husband wanted me to experience it.
While I was carried through the air, no sound but the wind moving in the canopy above us, I began to think about my life and my obsessive need to know every step of the journey. Near death experiences have the fortunate side effect of introspection. My dream was to become a professional musician, travel the world, sing and play and make albums for millions of people to hear. That was the journey I planned to take. But here I am, a woman who writes books and shares her stories with people for the purpose of spiritual inspiration and encouragement. Not exactly how I expected God to use me. However, in relinquishing control to Him, and laying down my perfect plan, I have found great fulfillment and deep- seated peace. My joy is in the knowledge that I’m on the path Jesus choose for me, long before I took my first breath. I can rest in the understanding that His way is flawless. And I can trust Him to carry me through my life journey as completely as I can trust him while floating from a canopy off the side of a mountain. It’s all in His perfectly capable hands.
Monday, July 23, 2007
It's by Grace Alone
Punting Perfection
God is love and all who live in love live in God and God lives in them…Such love has no fear because perfect love expels all fear. If we are afraid it is for fear of judgment and this shows that his love has not been perfected in us. First John 4:16&18 NLT
I grew up in a small town in Southern Illinois similar to Andy Griffith’s Mayberry, where there is common familiarity and no strangers wander the streets. When I was five years old my dad gave me a nickel for ice cream and I casually made my way downtown alone; blonde curls bouncing, black patent leather shoes clicking on the concrete sidewalk for seven or eight blocks in search of the cone. The local cab driver picked me up and took me to the police station and there I sat in a huge wooden chair, entertaining the officers with my childish antics until my frantic father arrived to take me home. Children were safe in Herrin, and crime was virtually non-existent. There was a warmth about that town that you don’t very often find today. In truth, small towns have their benefits and their detriments.
My parents attended a house of worship, one where unusual occurrences were commonplace. People often came to the front of the church for prayer for various assortments of ailments and many of them left completely whole, relieved of their pain and suffering. It wasn’t at all unusual to see someone come in a wheelchair and leave without it. Afterwards, the ominous steel chair placed at the front of the house…a constant reminder to those who entered that hallowed place of God’s miracle working power.
I’m sure the music I heard in that church left a lifelong impression on me, and I still remember the words and chords to every old hymn sung there. The choir bellowed fervently with such great enthusiasm that it was hard for the congregation to stay in their seats. We’d all rise, hands clapping, hearts lifted toward heaven, spirits soaring, caught up in the deep and genuine emotion of praise to the Creator.
The minister had a theatrical approach to sermonizing that kept all of us enraptured. He painted a vivid picture of heaven and hell, and I’m quite certain there wasn’t a single soul in that house who hadn’t made a clear cut choice for their eternal home at the completion of the pastor’s message. It seemed all his messages had something to do with living right and behaving in an appropriate manner that would insure our heavenly home.
Expectations and rules of conduct were laid out precisely, most of them directed toward women and girls. The do’s and don’ts of that particular sect of Christianity were severe and when I was a child, I didn’t question them. But, as I became a teenager I struggled with the set of laws I was expected to adhere to. We couldn’t cut or trim our hair, no make-up was allowed, no long pants, or shorts. Therefore, I couldn’t participate in my high school marching band as pants were part of the uniform. No swimming with people of the opposite sex (called “mixed bathing”) in or around public pools, and we couldn’t go to movie theaters or parties, unless the party was thrown by people within our particular church. High School prom was absolutely taboo. Our clothing had to meet specific standards- high necks, long sleeves and dresses to or below the knee.
As long as we met the specifications, we were accepted with warmth and fellowship, but if the rules were broken in the slightest measure, the punishment was swift and sure.
When I was 16, I played the piano for the church and the minister noticed that I had trimmed an inch or two off of my waist length hair. He removed me from the platform, called me into his office and explained my disrespect had cost me my position. He promised to show me scriptural proof of my sin, but as the days and weeks progressed, the only proof of my hell-bound rebellion was his fiery sermons demanding absolute subservience to his interpretation of scripture. Love, grace, tolerance and acceptance were not a part of that denominational code, so as you can well imagine, I had a skewed understanding and interpretation of God and spirituality. In fact, the only real knowledge I had of God was one of fear, and strict expectation. I lived everyday with the apprehension that I would go to hell for this infraction or that one. I was completely unaware of the true nature of God’s grace and benevolence.
And with that particular belief system shaping my life, I came into adulthood with a driving need for perfection. I had to make myself perfect in order to please God, and to be accepted by those around me. I was a people- pleaser in every since of the word. Every aspect of my life was impacted by this gripping need for acceptance. I had no concept of my own identity, as it had been so wrapped up and defined by rules and expectations of my church.
This need for perfection and its illusive control over my life battered my self- confidence into the ground. Everything I did, or attempted to do, was from a point of searching for acceptance and love. When you feel that love from God and others is predicated on your ability to earn that love and acceptance by the perfection of your deeds, then you have no idea how to be yourself or find who you really are. Every move and decision is based on the need for approval. I was completely imprisoned by my misinformed beliefs, and unfortunately took some dreadful roads in my quest for love. The truth is, there is no perfection within the human effort, only the effort itself.
I moved to St. Louis to attend university and found a house of worship that intrigued me. The minister stood to deliver his sermon and I braced myself for the expected lashing. But instead, this man spoke of the love of God...of the gift purchased for us by Jesus death on the cross, how we are no longer subject to the law, as grace took its place at Calvary. He went on to say we would never be perfect, as there was only one perfect sinless lamb offered up for the mistakes of all mankind and it is in Jesus’ perfection alone that our imperfections are forgiven. I listened with an intent ear, never having heard such things before and wondering if somehow this grace was enough for a hopeless sinner like me. God is love and all who live in love live in God and God lives in them…Such love has no fear because perfect love expels all fear.
What a life changing revelation. Could it be true? I would never, could never earn my way into Heaven by the perfection of my deeds. Was it really through Christ alone and my faith in Him that I was forgiven and whole to walk in this new life I’d been given? What a freedom that came to my heart through the understanding of forgiveness. I felt like a one hundred pound weight of fear and needless expectation had been lifted from my soul. I could live, and be, and choose for myself how I would express my life before God. And He would direct my path each day. Such freedom was completely foreign to me, but joyously welcome.
This is how my journey began; it is one I live each day with the intimate understanding of His mercies, His power and His presence, all fresh every morning. And although I continue to struggle and will likely always have some challenge in the area of overcoming my need to be perfect, and to make everything around me perfect, still, I am a child of God, unique, gifted and talented in ways that are meant to bring Him glory and honor. My prayer is that I grow in His grace each day and that my experiences will enrich the lives of those around me. I choose to embrace the freedom to live my life in love, to give and receive that love freely, without the needless imprisonment of perfection and the fear of failure.
God is love and all who live in love live in God and God lives in them…Such love has no fear because perfect love expels all fear. If we are afraid it is for fear of judgment and this shows that his love has not been perfected in us. First John 4:16&18 NLT
I grew up in a small town in Southern Illinois similar to Andy Griffith’s Mayberry, where there is common familiarity and no strangers wander the streets. When I was five years old my dad gave me a nickel for ice cream and I casually made my way downtown alone; blonde curls bouncing, black patent leather shoes clicking on the concrete sidewalk for seven or eight blocks in search of the cone. The local cab driver picked me up and took me to the police station and there I sat in a huge wooden chair, entertaining the officers with my childish antics until my frantic father arrived to take me home. Children were safe in Herrin, and crime was virtually non-existent. There was a warmth about that town that you don’t very often find today. In truth, small towns have their benefits and their detriments.
My parents attended a house of worship, one where unusual occurrences were commonplace. People often came to the front of the church for prayer for various assortments of ailments and many of them left completely whole, relieved of their pain and suffering. It wasn’t at all unusual to see someone come in a wheelchair and leave without it. Afterwards, the ominous steel chair placed at the front of the house…a constant reminder to those who entered that hallowed place of God’s miracle working power.
I’m sure the music I heard in that church left a lifelong impression on me, and I still remember the words and chords to every old hymn sung there. The choir bellowed fervently with such great enthusiasm that it was hard for the congregation to stay in their seats. We’d all rise, hands clapping, hearts lifted toward heaven, spirits soaring, caught up in the deep and genuine emotion of praise to the Creator.
The minister had a theatrical approach to sermonizing that kept all of us enraptured. He painted a vivid picture of heaven and hell, and I’m quite certain there wasn’t a single soul in that house who hadn’t made a clear cut choice for their eternal home at the completion of the pastor’s message. It seemed all his messages had something to do with living right and behaving in an appropriate manner that would insure our heavenly home.
Expectations and rules of conduct were laid out precisely, most of them directed toward women and girls. The do’s and don’ts of that particular sect of Christianity were severe and when I was a child, I didn’t question them. But, as I became a teenager I struggled with the set of laws I was expected to adhere to. We couldn’t cut or trim our hair, no make-up was allowed, no long pants, or shorts. Therefore, I couldn’t participate in my high school marching band as pants were part of the uniform. No swimming with people of the opposite sex (called “mixed bathing”) in or around public pools, and we couldn’t go to movie theaters or parties, unless the party was thrown by people within our particular church. High School prom was absolutely taboo. Our clothing had to meet specific standards- high necks, long sleeves and dresses to or below the knee.
As long as we met the specifications, we were accepted with warmth and fellowship, but if the rules were broken in the slightest measure, the punishment was swift and sure.
When I was 16, I played the piano for the church and the minister noticed that I had trimmed an inch or two off of my waist length hair. He removed me from the platform, called me into his office and explained my disrespect had cost me my position. He promised to show me scriptural proof of my sin, but as the days and weeks progressed, the only proof of my hell-bound rebellion was his fiery sermons demanding absolute subservience to his interpretation of scripture. Love, grace, tolerance and acceptance were not a part of that denominational code, so as you can well imagine, I had a skewed understanding and interpretation of God and spirituality. In fact, the only real knowledge I had of God was one of fear, and strict expectation. I lived everyday with the apprehension that I would go to hell for this infraction or that one. I was completely unaware of the true nature of God’s grace and benevolence.
And with that particular belief system shaping my life, I came into adulthood with a driving need for perfection. I had to make myself perfect in order to please God, and to be accepted by those around me. I was a people- pleaser in every since of the word. Every aspect of my life was impacted by this gripping need for acceptance. I had no concept of my own identity, as it had been so wrapped up and defined by rules and expectations of my church.
This need for perfection and its illusive control over my life battered my self- confidence into the ground. Everything I did, or attempted to do, was from a point of searching for acceptance and love. When you feel that love from God and others is predicated on your ability to earn that love and acceptance by the perfection of your deeds, then you have no idea how to be yourself or find who you really are. Every move and decision is based on the need for approval. I was completely imprisoned by my misinformed beliefs, and unfortunately took some dreadful roads in my quest for love. The truth is, there is no perfection within the human effort, only the effort itself.
I moved to St. Louis to attend university and found a house of worship that intrigued me. The minister stood to deliver his sermon and I braced myself for the expected lashing. But instead, this man spoke of the love of God...of the gift purchased for us by Jesus death on the cross, how we are no longer subject to the law, as grace took its place at Calvary. He went on to say we would never be perfect, as there was only one perfect sinless lamb offered up for the mistakes of all mankind and it is in Jesus’ perfection alone that our imperfections are forgiven. I listened with an intent ear, never having heard such things before and wondering if somehow this grace was enough for a hopeless sinner like me. God is love and all who live in love live in God and God lives in them…Such love has no fear because perfect love expels all fear.
What a life changing revelation. Could it be true? I would never, could never earn my way into Heaven by the perfection of my deeds. Was it really through Christ alone and my faith in Him that I was forgiven and whole to walk in this new life I’d been given? What a freedom that came to my heart through the understanding of forgiveness. I felt like a one hundred pound weight of fear and needless expectation had been lifted from my soul. I could live, and be, and choose for myself how I would express my life before God. And He would direct my path each day. Such freedom was completely foreign to me, but joyously welcome.
This is how my journey began; it is one I live each day with the intimate understanding of His mercies, His power and His presence, all fresh every morning. And although I continue to struggle and will likely always have some challenge in the area of overcoming my need to be perfect, and to make everything around me perfect, still, I am a child of God, unique, gifted and talented in ways that are meant to bring Him glory and honor. My prayer is that I grow in His grace each day and that my experiences will enrich the lives of those around me. I choose to embrace the freedom to live my life in love, to give and receive that love freely, without the needless imprisonment of perfection and the fear of failure.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Self Control, Segment five
Skating Toward Self Control from ‘Shoes For The Spirit, Inspirations'
(5)
‘Fix your thoughts on what is true and honorable and right. Think about things that are pure, lovely and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.’ Philippians 4:8
My father and I were connected at the hip from the time he first held me in his arms to the day I gave him my last kiss. If he told the story of my birth once, he must have told it a thousand times to anyone who would listen. How the nurse brought me out of the delivery room, wrapped in a little pink blanket and carefully placed me in my father’s outstretched arms.
“Congratulations, Mr. Hampton…you have a baby girl!”
“Now, don’t tease me, because this is not a bit funny.”
He’d explain, with a serious and concerned face: “I’ve been waiting for a little girl my whole life and you’d better not be kidding me.”
“No sir, no joking here. This is your little girl.”
Dad would hold out his arms just like he must have done a half century ago, a look of wonder and excitement on his face. He’d then mimic taking me in his arms, and then quickly hand me back to the nurse. “Take her now; I sure don’t want to drop her!”
One of my earliest memories of my father was skating on a lake, on a small property my parents owned in the country. The Lost Sixty, as they fondly called it, was no luxury resort…more like a few wooded acres with a small travel trailer parked on a hill, overlooking a pond. But in the winter, it froze over and my dad would take me out on the pond in my ankle high, red rubber boots and we’d skate around that frozen wonderland like it was the Olympics in Salt Lake City. We’d spin and twirl and Dad would clap with exuberance at my childish antics.
I have vivid memories of him coming in the house after a long day of work at the tool and dye factory, and me leaping into his arms with glee as he laughed that big belly laugh of his and swung me through the air. My personal flying trapeze. The best part of my day was the moment Dad came through that door.
We’d find any excuse at all to take a walk together, or get on his beautiful Honda Gold Wing touring bike for a ride through the country. Many times we’d find ourselves in Paducah, Kentucky having been on the bike for a couple hours, and predictably parked in front of the ‘Fish and Chips’ restaurant. We’d always order our favorite; fried catfish and hush puppies with a big glass of iced tea.
And these are the thoughts I fix my mind upon, now that Dad is gone. It was incredibly difficult to watch him get old. Such a vibrant active man, he always had a joke to tell and a funny way of looking at life. I could barely stand to see his body bent over by the deteriorating effects of osteoporosis, and the once whip-sharp mind altered by the relentless pursuit of Alzheimer’s disease.
During this season of change and aging, Dad and I had a few cross words. He never seemed to be happy with his surroundings, always looking to move and I just wanted him to settle in and find contentment. We argued from time to time and I said some things to him I can’t forget. That’s the trouble with spoken words; they come back to haunt us.
He came to stay with us in Florida for six weeks over the Christmas and New Year Holiday and during that time we were able to do some of his favorite things. We ate breakfast at Mel’s Diner- the biscuits and gravy were always calling his name. We took long rides in my little red car, the faster the better. We sat outside and watched the pelicans dive in the bay, hungry for their daily meal. But most of all, we talked about all the wonderful people we’d known over the years and the many adventures we’d experienced in life together. Dad had no problem with the past…it was the present that threw him.
He couldn’t remember how to turn on the light switch, or the water faucet in the bathroom, couldn’t recall how to find his way to the kitchen table, or back to his bedroom at the end of the day. He’d lose his wallet and accuse me of stealing it, which of course I’d never do. But, that’s one of the sad and hurtful issues of Alzheimer’s. It slowly steals away the person you’ve known and replaces them with a stranger.
Dad took a fall in the early morning hours attempting to find the bathroom and broke his hip. We ambulanced him to the hospital and got him settled into a private room while he awaited hip replacement surgery. I sat next to Dad’s bed, holding his hand and listened as he spoke of years gone by, and as he laughed at silly stories he loved to remember. I stood to leave and as I did, I leaned forward and gave him a kiss on those withered lips. He smiled his great big funny smile and said, “You’re the best daughter a fella could ever have!” That was Dad’s last lucid moment, and my last memory of my father.
And now that Dad is gone my natural inclination is to return to those painful words I spoke in haste, and relive angry moments between us, berating myself for each one of them. Why is it we can always remember our failures, but so easily forget our victories?
‘Fix your thoughts on what is true and honorable and right, Think about things that are pure, lovely and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.’ And this is what I choose to do. I choose to laugh rather than to cry, to rejoice rather than mourn, and to be thankful for every wonderful picture that still lingers in my memory. This takes a strong measure of self control to order my thoughts in a lovely and admirable way, but so worth the task.
Today my thoughts are fixed on those little red rubber boots and me, skating across the Lost Sixty pond, the darling of my father’s heart.
(5)
‘Fix your thoughts on what is true and honorable and right. Think about things that are pure, lovely and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.’ Philippians 4:8
My father and I were connected at the hip from the time he first held me in his arms to the day I gave him my last kiss. If he told the story of my birth once, he must have told it a thousand times to anyone who would listen. How the nurse brought me out of the delivery room, wrapped in a little pink blanket and carefully placed me in my father’s outstretched arms.
“Congratulations, Mr. Hampton…you have a baby girl!”
“Now, don’t tease me, because this is not a bit funny.”
He’d explain, with a serious and concerned face: “I’ve been waiting for a little girl my whole life and you’d better not be kidding me.”
“No sir, no joking here. This is your little girl.”
Dad would hold out his arms just like he must have done a half century ago, a look of wonder and excitement on his face. He’d then mimic taking me in his arms, and then quickly hand me back to the nurse. “Take her now; I sure don’t want to drop her!”
One of my earliest memories of my father was skating on a lake, on a small property my parents owned in the country. The Lost Sixty, as they fondly called it, was no luxury resort…more like a few wooded acres with a small travel trailer parked on a hill, overlooking a pond. But in the winter, it froze over and my dad would take me out on the pond in my ankle high, red rubber boots and we’d skate around that frozen wonderland like it was the Olympics in Salt Lake City. We’d spin and twirl and Dad would clap with exuberance at my childish antics.
I have vivid memories of him coming in the house after a long day of work at the tool and dye factory, and me leaping into his arms with glee as he laughed that big belly laugh of his and swung me through the air. My personal flying trapeze. The best part of my day was the moment Dad came through that door.
We’d find any excuse at all to take a walk together, or get on his beautiful Honda Gold Wing touring bike for a ride through the country. Many times we’d find ourselves in Paducah, Kentucky having been on the bike for a couple hours, and predictably parked in front of the ‘Fish and Chips’ restaurant. We’d always order our favorite; fried catfish and hush puppies with a big glass of iced tea.
And these are the thoughts I fix my mind upon, now that Dad is gone. It was incredibly difficult to watch him get old. Such a vibrant active man, he always had a joke to tell and a funny way of looking at life. I could barely stand to see his body bent over by the deteriorating effects of osteoporosis, and the once whip-sharp mind altered by the relentless pursuit of Alzheimer’s disease.
During this season of change and aging, Dad and I had a few cross words. He never seemed to be happy with his surroundings, always looking to move and I just wanted him to settle in and find contentment. We argued from time to time and I said some things to him I can’t forget. That’s the trouble with spoken words; they come back to haunt us.
He came to stay with us in Florida for six weeks over the Christmas and New Year Holiday and during that time we were able to do some of his favorite things. We ate breakfast at Mel’s Diner- the biscuits and gravy were always calling his name. We took long rides in my little red car, the faster the better. We sat outside and watched the pelicans dive in the bay, hungry for their daily meal. But most of all, we talked about all the wonderful people we’d known over the years and the many adventures we’d experienced in life together. Dad had no problem with the past…it was the present that threw him.
He couldn’t remember how to turn on the light switch, or the water faucet in the bathroom, couldn’t recall how to find his way to the kitchen table, or back to his bedroom at the end of the day. He’d lose his wallet and accuse me of stealing it, which of course I’d never do. But, that’s one of the sad and hurtful issues of Alzheimer’s. It slowly steals away the person you’ve known and replaces them with a stranger.
Dad took a fall in the early morning hours attempting to find the bathroom and broke his hip. We ambulanced him to the hospital and got him settled into a private room while he awaited hip replacement surgery. I sat next to Dad’s bed, holding his hand and listened as he spoke of years gone by, and as he laughed at silly stories he loved to remember. I stood to leave and as I did, I leaned forward and gave him a kiss on those withered lips. He smiled his great big funny smile and said, “You’re the best daughter a fella could ever have!” That was Dad’s last lucid moment, and my last memory of my father.
And now that Dad is gone my natural inclination is to return to those painful words I spoke in haste, and relive angry moments between us, berating myself for each one of them. Why is it we can always remember our failures, but so easily forget our victories?
‘Fix your thoughts on what is true and honorable and right, Think about things that are pure, lovely and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.’ And this is what I choose to do. I choose to laugh rather than to cry, to rejoice rather than mourn, and to be thankful for every wonderful picture that still lingers in my memory. This takes a strong measure of self control to order my thoughts in a lovely and admirable way, but so worth the task.
Today my thoughts are fixed on those little red rubber boots and me, skating across the Lost Sixty pond, the darling of my father’s heart.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Skating Toward Self Control (4)
Skating Toward Self Control
(4)
‘And don’t sin by letting anger control you. Don’t let the sun go down while you are still angry.’ Ephesians 4:26
Most of the time, I love living in the bright and sunny, terminally green state of Florida. But when all the snow birds fly north and the rainy season kicks in, the humidity can get so thick you could cut it with a knife. Rain comes suddenly and without warning. In a moment’s time it can turn your lovely coif and neatly pressed suit into a drenched vignette from ‘Singing in the Rain.’
Not long ago, my husband purchased an expensive umbrella for me from one of those couture luggage places in the mall. He knows I love red, so he bought the prettiest bright red umbrella he could buy. It was the kind with a push-button release to shoot the umbrella high over your head in a protective stance of guaranteed dehumidification. And with the same simple gesture could reduce itself to ten percent of its full blown stature, a marvel of modern technology.
Feeling amply protected and assured of staying dry with my new high-tech umbrella, I got ready for some important meetings, did the serious-business makeup, took more time with the hair than usual and put on my brand new dress. Let’s not even talk about the shoes; my saved-in-the-closet, never-worn-before, shoes.
When I left the house that morning, the sky was blue and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. But as unpredictably certain as the weather in Florida can be, barely did I get to my first meeting and step out of the car, when it came a deluge. Reaching in the back seat to take hold of my secret weapon I swung it toward the heavens with a sure and trusted gesture, only to find the blasted release button was stuck. Pushing frantically on that silver button of promise, I was so engrossed in the failure of my secret weapon, I didn’t notice how wet I was getting…when my thumb was exhausted from pushing, I used my never-worn-before, now completely saturated shoes to help me out. Women can be so resourceful when necessary. I took off my shoe, and used the heel to pound lose that exasperating button. Suddenly the umbrella shot open, taking my purse in its liftoff and scattering the contents all over the parking lot that now resembled a small lake. Standing in a half inch of water, one shoe off the other on, the personal effects of my bag strewn about everywhere, there was one ray of light in the midst of this wet, dreary day…. the umbrella, my strong and sure protector…was open. Let’s not forget to be thankful for the small things in life.
I was blissfully happy with my three dollar push-up Walmart umbrella. What is it with guys and gadgets? I went into my meeting soaked from head to toe and more than a little angry at my husband for buying me that high tech piece of junk.
And I was angry at the umbrella for failing me. I was angry at God for sending the rain at a most inopportune time. I was angry at myself for bothering to make the effort to look nice when a girl should know better during the rainy season in Florida. Sometimes a person just gets angry. There were a few names I called that evil umbrella on that wet day that I won’t write here for kind and trusting eyes to see, but believe me when I tell you, the story didn’t end there.
Coming out of my meeting, the deluge had become a sprinkle and I made a quick jog back to my car. As I reached in my purse to pull out the car keys, I accidentally hit the silver button on that blasted umbrella, and wouldn’t you know it…now that I had no emergency, it sprang open like a misplaced Knight in shining red amour prepared to protect the damsel no longer in distress. And do you think for one minute I could get that piece of polyester wrapped tinsel to close? Not a chance. I must have stood there for fifteen minutes trying to shut down that possessed umbrella, when the rain made an unwanted return. Unbelieveable!
All I wanted at this point in time was to get home, to take off my wet clothes, dry my stringy hair and wipe off the mascara that was stuck to my cheeks. In utter exasperation, I opened the car door, sat down in the driver’s seat and slid it as far back as possible to accommodate the obnoxious red monster. I literally had to maneuver that open umbrella into my little car and somehow drive home with it.
I had my speech prepared for my husband before he stepped one foot through the door. I let him have it about his gadget obsession and the red techno tyrant that ruined my morning. There was steam coming out of my ears when I began my angry rant.
We all know that rage is a powerful, divisive force. It has the ability to separate hearts, drive wedges in relationships and terminate communication. God knows how indignation affects the spirit and wreaks havoc with the soul, and that’s why he says in his word ‘Don’t sin by letting anger control you. Don’t let the sun go down while you are still angry.’ I don’t know about you, but when examining my past, most every time I’ve been truly angry, I’ve sinned; either in word or deed. How do we avoid that? My adventure with the umbrella that fateful day taught me a valuable lesson in discovering the flip-side of anger.
Something happened about half way through my indignant rant at my husband. Jim started to snigger. And the snigger became a full blown guffaw and before you know it we were both in the floor rolling with laughter over the events of my day.
I realize there are certainly vexing situations that have little humor to offer, but if we take a few moments, enlist the self control needed to see the situation through different eyes, or a contrasting vantage point, the all-encompassing emotion of wrath can take a back seat to what’s really important in life. Most of the time, anger is simply a small inconvenience, or a misunderstanding that has needlessly blown itself out of proportion. Bottom line; my relationship with my husband meant far more to me than some ridiculous umbrella.
Thank God I kept that three dollar push-up Walmart special, because when it comes to gadgets? Women have it all goin’ on.
(4)
‘And don’t sin by letting anger control you. Don’t let the sun go down while you are still angry.’ Ephesians 4:26
Most of the time, I love living in the bright and sunny, terminally green state of Florida. But when all the snow birds fly north and the rainy season kicks in, the humidity can get so thick you could cut it with a knife. Rain comes suddenly and without warning. In a moment’s time it can turn your lovely coif and neatly pressed suit into a drenched vignette from ‘Singing in the Rain.’
Not long ago, my husband purchased an expensive umbrella for me from one of those couture luggage places in the mall. He knows I love red, so he bought the prettiest bright red umbrella he could buy. It was the kind with a push-button release to shoot the umbrella high over your head in a protective stance of guaranteed dehumidification. And with the same simple gesture could reduce itself to ten percent of its full blown stature, a marvel of modern technology.
Feeling amply protected and assured of staying dry with my new high-tech umbrella, I got ready for some important meetings, did the serious-business makeup, took more time with the hair than usual and put on my brand new dress. Let’s not even talk about the shoes; my saved-in-the-closet, never-worn-before, shoes.
When I left the house that morning, the sky was blue and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. But as unpredictably certain as the weather in Florida can be, barely did I get to my first meeting and step out of the car, when it came a deluge. Reaching in the back seat to take hold of my secret weapon I swung it toward the heavens with a sure and trusted gesture, only to find the blasted release button was stuck. Pushing frantically on that silver button of promise, I was so engrossed in the failure of my secret weapon, I didn’t notice how wet I was getting…when my thumb was exhausted from pushing, I used my never-worn-before, now completely saturated shoes to help me out. Women can be so resourceful when necessary. I took off my shoe, and used the heel to pound lose that exasperating button. Suddenly the umbrella shot open, taking my purse in its liftoff and scattering the contents all over the parking lot that now resembled a small lake. Standing in a half inch of water, one shoe off the other on, the personal effects of my bag strewn about everywhere, there was one ray of light in the midst of this wet, dreary day…. the umbrella, my strong and sure protector…was open. Let’s not forget to be thankful for the small things in life.
I was blissfully happy with my three dollar push-up Walmart umbrella. What is it with guys and gadgets? I went into my meeting soaked from head to toe and more than a little angry at my husband for buying me that high tech piece of junk.
And I was angry at the umbrella for failing me. I was angry at God for sending the rain at a most inopportune time. I was angry at myself for bothering to make the effort to look nice when a girl should know better during the rainy season in Florida. Sometimes a person just gets angry. There were a few names I called that evil umbrella on that wet day that I won’t write here for kind and trusting eyes to see, but believe me when I tell you, the story didn’t end there.
Coming out of my meeting, the deluge had become a sprinkle and I made a quick jog back to my car. As I reached in my purse to pull out the car keys, I accidentally hit the silver button on that blasted umbrella, and wouldn’t you know it…now that I had no emergency, it sprang open like a misplaced Knight in shining red amour prepared to protect the damsel no longer in distress. And do you think for one minute I could get that piece of polyester wrapped tinsel to close? Not a chance. I must have stood there for fifteen minutes trying to shut down that possessed umbrella, when the rain made an unwanted return. Unbelieveable!
All I wanted at this point in time was to get home, to take off my wet clothes, dry my stringy hair and wipe off the mascara that was stuck to my cheeks. In utter exasperation, I opened the car door, sat down in the driver’s seat and slid it as far back as possible to accommodate the obnoxious red monster. I literally had to maneuver that open umbrella into my little car and somehow drive home with it.
I had my speech prepared for my husband before he stepped one foot through the door. I let him have it about his gadget obsession and the red techno tyrant that ruined my morning. There was steam coming out of my ears when I began my angry rant.
We all know that rage is a powerful, divisive force. It has the ability to separate hearts, drive wedges in relationships and terminate communication. God knows how indignation affects the spirit and wreaks havoc with the soul, and that’s why he says in his word ‘Don’t sin by letting anger control you. Don’t let the sun go down while you are still angry.’ I don’t know about you, but when examining my past, most every time I’ve been truly angry, I’ve sinned; either in word or deed. How do we avoid that? My adventure with the umbrella that fateful day taught me a valuable lesson in discovering the flip-side of anger.
Something happened about half way through my indignant rant at my husband. Jim started to snigger. And the snigger became a full blown guffaw and before you know it we were both in the floor rolling with laughter over the events of my day.
I realize there are certainly vexing situations that have little humor to offer, but if we take a few moments, enlist the self control needed to see the situation through different eyes, or a contrasting vantage point, the all-encompassing emotion of wrath can take a back seat to what’s really important in life. Most of the time, anger is simply a small inconvenience, or a misunderstanding that has needlessly blown itself out of proportion. Bottom line; my relationship with my husband meant far more to me than some ridiculous umbrella.
Thank God I kept that three dollar push-up Walmart special, because when it comes to gadgets? Women have it all goin’ on.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Skating Toward Self Control
(3)
Then Joshua asked them, “How long are you going to wait before taking possession of the remaining land the Lord, the God of your ancestors has given to you?” Joshua 18:3
My mother used to always tell me to ‘never put off until tomorrow what you can accomplish today.’ I can always think of a hundred things that need to be done in the house and the yard alone. Our adorable little Chihuahua, Salsa, needs a bath. The rose bushes are in desperate need of a good trimming. Paint is chipping on the old garage door, the pool is full of June bugs and this is October. And that is exactly my problem. I can always think of a multitude of other tasks in order to avoid the one thing I need to do the most. Yes, sadly it’s true. I am a procrastinator. There should be an organization similar to AA for people like me who always want to put off until tomorrow the thing we need to do today. Procrastinator’s Anonymous. I could be the President.
I’m always telling my husband, ‘Look at everything I accomplished today!’ And he sits in wonder at the tasks that have been finished. I actually make lists in the evening before the next day and check them off one by one as I complete them. How could a person this organized be a procrastinator? Sounds impossible, doesn’t it? But it’s the one thing I don’t want to do that stands ominously in the way of my peace of mind and truest success. It’s the thing I most need to do that slips through my fingers day after day. And that thing I need to do, but don’t is what keeps me awake at night, haunts me during the day and makes me a certified member of PA whether I want to be or not.
I bet you’re laughing right now, because you see yourself in precisely the same light. There are numerous members of Procrastinators Anonymous. I’ve met many souls of similar persuasion whose closets are running over with clothes that are crying to be boxed up for Good Will, newspapers from years ago they’ve never read that should be in the recycle bin, documents that still have not been signed but are collecting dust instead on the corner of some desk with a broken drawer.
Procrastinators have a moral code they live by and rarely is it broken- Never do today what can wait until tomorrow. Since I’m the rightful President of this club let me be the first to tell you this important truth; self control is the virtue which all true procrastinators lack; the one they need the most.
People often ask me where I got my musical talent. I have vivid childhood memories of my father sitting at the piano, teaching me to play “Little Brown Jug.” It’s a short, simple song with no more then three chords, the lyrics portraying the life of a fellow more interested in his booze than his wife. My Dad, who never took a drop of liquor himself, sang this song like he was auditioning for American Idol, and it was interesting how he could take those same three chords and apply them to any hymn you’d ever want to sing. Ingenious. My mother, on the other hand, sang in the church choir….and everyone could pick her out, because she was the person who enthusiastically belted out every song on the same note, regardless of the key of the music.
This was my musical heritage. “Little Brown Jug,” however, didn’t get me very far in college when I needed to play a Beethoven Sonata or a Bach Fugue. My Mother’s monotone voice did little for me when it came to singing Operatic Arias, and German Art Songs. I had much to learn and the discipline of time and effort required was monumental. Each week, there was a new piano piece to perfect and a new art song to learn, and worst of all, I had to perform them in front of the Webster University music faculty and other students.
When time came for final exams, they usually entailed a recital performance as a large part of our final grade. I cleaned my dorm room. I cleaned it six times. I worked on my other non-pertinent classes- studied psychology, memorized history facts, volunteered in the lunchroom- anything at all to avoid facing the workload I knew I needed to attack.
What was wrong with me? When finally I got down to business and hit the practice room to prepare for my recital, I had only days left to complete the task. Now, unless one is a genius, it’s quite impossible to memorize twenty to thirty pages of music in just a few days. Needless to say, my performance was less than stellar, and my German Art Song, took on a familiar monotone, reminiscent of my mother’s glory days in the church choir.
I have to admit, it was an enlightening moment for this bonafide procrastinator. I had to weigh the consequences of my lack of discipline, and self-control. Like it or not, there is a painful price to pay for putting off until tomorrow what needs to be done today.
Paul addressed this particular issue in the second book of Timothy, the second chapter, starting at verse 5 when he says this; “Follow the Lord’s rules for doing his work, just as an athlete either follows the rules or is disqualified and wins no prize. The hardworking farmers are the first to enjoy the fruit of their labor.” When we can grasp the discipline of priority, and gain through God’s enablement the power to tackle those tasks that are most needful and necessary in our lives, we reap the benefits of that self control.
I honestly never gave myself license to procrastinate practice for another recital after the painful lesson I learned at Webster University. I decided the humiliation wasn’t worth dragging my heels. Of course, applying that precept to all the other areas of my life has been a challenge. Once a procrastinator……
If I knew how to defeat the demon of delay, I’d reveal the secret in this book. But, I know the One who is ready and able to help us prioritize our lives and who genuinely wants us to win the prize of purpose fulfilled. I now start each morning requesting God’s assistance in my quest to order my day and seek his collaboration in my effort to accomplish those tasks most needful. It’s amazing how simple the mission can be when the Lord puts his particular spin on it. What seemed daunting suddenly appears attainable. God has this miraculous way of turning mountains into molehills. Don’t you love that?
So, “How long are you going to wait before taking possession of the remaining land the Lord the God of your ancestors has given to you?” Well Lord, by your grace, I’ll get to it first thing tomorrow.
(3)
Then Joshua asked them, “How long are you going to wait before taking possession of the remaining land the Lord, the God of your ancestors has given to you?” Joshua 18:3
My mother used to always tell me to ‘never put off until tomorrow what you can accomplish today.’ I can always think of a hundred things that need to be done in the house and the yard alone. Our adorable little Chihuahua, Salsa, needs a bath. The rose bushes are in desperate need of a good trimming. Paint is chipping on the old garage door, the pool is full of June bugs and this is October. And that is exactly my problem. I can always think of a multitude of other tasks in order to avoid the one thing I need to do the most. Yes, sadly it’s true. I am a procrastinator. There should be an organization similar to AA for people like me who always want to put off until tomorrow the thing we need to do today. Procrastinator’s Anonymous. I could be the President.
I’m always telling my husband, ‘Look at everything I accomplished today!’ And he sits in wonder at the tasks that have been finished. I actually make lists in the evening before the next day and check them off one by one as I complete them. How could a person this organized be a procrastinator? Sounds impossible, doesn’t it? But it’s the one thing I don’t want to do that stands ominously in the way of my peace of mind and truest success. It’s the thing I most need to do that slips through my fingers day after day. And that thing I need to do, but don’t is what keeps me awake at night, haunts me during the day and makes me a certified member of PA whether I want to be or not.
I bet you’re laughing right now, because you see yourself in precisely the same light. There are numerous members of Procrastinators Anonymous. I’ve met many souls of similar persuasion whose closets are running over with clothes that are crying to be boxed up for Good Will, newspapers from years ago they’ve never read that should be in the recycle bin, documents that still have not been signed but are collecting dust instead on the corner of some desk with a broken drawer.
Procrastinators have a moral code they live by and rarely is it broken- Never do today what can wait until tomorrow. Since I’m the rightful President of this club let me be the first to tell you this important truth; self control is the virtue which all true procrastinators lack; the one they need the most.
People often ask me where I got my musical talent. I have vivid childhood memories of my father sitting at the piano, teaching me to play “Little Brown Jug.” It’s a short, simple song with no more then three chords, the lyrics portraying the life of a fellow more interested in his booze than his wife. My Dad, who never took a drop of liquor himself, sang this song like he was auditioning for American Idol, and it was interesting how he could take those same three chords and apply them to any hymn you’d ever want to sing. Ingenious. My mother, on the other hand, sang in the church choir….and everyone could pick her out, because she was the person who enthusiastically belted out every song on the same note, regardless of the key of the music.
This was my musical heritage. “Little Brown Jug,” however, didn’t get me very far in college when I needed to play a Beethoven Sonata or a Bach Fugue. My Mother’s monotone voice did little for me when it came to singing Operatic Arias, and German Art Songs. I had much to learn and the discipline of time and effort required was monumental. Each week, there was a new piano piece to perfect and a new art song to learn, and worst of all, I had to perform them in front of the Webster University music faculty and other students.
When time came for final exams, they usually entailed a recital performance as a large part of our final grade. I cleaned my dorm room. I cleaned it six times. I worked on my other non-pertinent classes- studied psychology, memorized history facts, volunteered in the lunchroom- anything at all to avoid facing the workload I knew I needed to attack.
What was wrong with me? When finally I got down to business and hit the practice room to prepare for my recital, I had only days left to complete the task. Now, unless one is a genius, it’s quite impossible to memorize twenty to thirty pages of music in just a few days. Needless to say, my performance was less than stellar, and my German Art Song, took on a familiar monotone, reminiscent of my mother’s glory days in the church choir.
I have to admit, it was an enlightening moment for this bonafide procrastinator. I had to weigh the consequences of my lack of discipline, and self-control. Like it or not, there is a painful price to pay for putting off until tomorrow what needs to be done today.
Paul addressed this particular issue in the second book of Timothy, the second chapter, starting at verse 5 when he says this; “Follow the Lord’s rules for doing his work, just as an athlete either follows the rules or is disqualified and wins no prize. The hardworking farmers are the first to enjoy the fruit of their labor.” When we can grasp the discipline of priority, and gain through God’s enablement the power to tackle those tasks that are most needful and necessary in our lives, we reap the benefits of that self control.
I honestly never gave myself license to procrastinate practice for another recital after the painful lesson I learned at Webster University. I decided the humiliation wasn’t worth dragging my heels. Of course, applying that precept to all the other areas of my life has been a challenge. Once a procrastinator……
If I knew how to defeat the demon of delay, I’d reveal the secret in this book. But, I know the One who is ready and able to help us prioritize our lives and who genuinely wants us to win the prize of purpose fulfilled. I now start each morning requesting God’s assistance in my quest to order my day and seek his collaboration in my effort to accomplish those tasks most needful. It’s amazing how simple the mission can be when the Lord puts his particular spin on it. What seemed daunting suddenly appears attainable. God has this miraculous way of turning mountains into molehills. Don’t you love that?
So, “How long are you going to wait before taking possession of the remaining land the Lord the God of your ancestors has given to you?” Well Lord, by your grace, I’ll get to it first thing tomorrow.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Skating Toward Self Control (2)
I can do all things through Christ that strengthens me…Philippians 4:13
My husband and I took a kid-less vacation to Aruba one summer when there was a special on airfare and hotel. We were in desperate need of some uninterrupted adult time and we’d never been there before. As we were flying in over the island I was enthralled with the beauty of the surrounding water…the vivid blues and deep greens were like nothing I’d ever seen. It looked like millions of tiny jewels dancing in sparkling symmetry on the water’s surface, as the sun shone through tiny, wispy clouds.
It was a short jaunt to the hotel from the airport and I was taken with how clean everything appeared. The shops and the streets were filled with people from all over the world. I was expecting lush green grass and lovely swaying palm trees, but found myself instead looking at cactus, and sand. Aruba is merely a small desert island.
We unpacked and went to talk to the concierge at the hotel about all the fun activities available to us in Aruba. We settled on a kayaking trip to Palm Island, an adjacent strip of land just off the Aruba coastline. I’d never been kayaking before, and this sounded like loads of fun. We hopped on the bus the next morning for the short trip to the launch site, and waited for our tour guide to appear.
In a few moments a deeply suntanned fellow sauntered up, shirtless, barefoot and with very long dreadlocks. I’d been looking for a man in a crisp white shirt and khaki shorts.
‘Good morning to you my friends! Are you ready for an adventure?” The impish smile on his face told me everything I needed to know. This was going to be interesting.
George, as our island tour guide was called, pointed us toward our bright red, fiberglass kayak, strapped us into our flotation devices and gave everyone a quick on- land lesson about ‘how to paddle a kayak.’
I’ve never been particularly co-coordinated, and in fact was always the last one picked for the softball team, after all other possibilities were exhausted. It wasn’t long before my husband became exasperated with my lack of paddle timing skills. Now tell me, who can successfully paddle in sand? Excuse me, but the last I checked, you need water to accomplish that goal. George, agreeing this might be of help to me, gave our little kayak a gentle push into the soft blue water. And off we went….in every direction you can imagine, but the right one. Who choose this kayak adventure? I was beginning to dislike the whole idea of it, and I hadn’t even mastered my paddle timing as yet.
While all the other kayakers were successfully making their way across the water to Palm Island, Jim and I were still paddling in circles, and all the while getting more and more aggravated with each other. So much for romantic getaways. George, being a kind- hearted fellow, took pity on us, lined his bright green kayak up with ours and shouted directions to us all the way to Palm Island. My husband was so humiliated. Men hate to take directions.
But it was worth the trip. Palm Island was a great place to snorkel and it wasn’t long until we were bedecked in all the necessary eye gear and breathing apparatus, and were ready to dive into the water. I have never in my life seen such glorious fish! Every color of the rainbow was represented in the most unusual shapes and sizes. These fellows were accustomed to being gawked at and would literally come up to you and eat right out of your hand. I couldn’t help but wonder how God comes up with such unique creatures.
All too soon, it was time to head back on our bright red kayak. After we were suited up into our flotation devices, George began to explain the challenges of our return voyage. It seems the water is easily paddled going to Palm Island, but there are four foot waves to navigate on the return. Funny, but George was looking straight at me the entire time he was explaining the perils awaiting us. I leaned over to Jim and said, “Are you noticing George is looking right at me?” “Yea hon, I think he wants you to ride in the kayak with him, and forget the idea of trying to paddle back.”
Incensed, I marched right up to George, and let him know in no uncertain terms that I could handle this trip back, and had no intention of riding in his bright green kayak. I would soon come to regret that decision.
I believe God gives us special gifts in that moment when we need them most….I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. And there have been more times than I can count that I have needed that unction, that supernatural strength to get me through the difficulties of life. When my baby spent endless hours in the hospital, when my father had a stroke, when Mother passed away, when our plane went down in the Missouri Ozarks… Those were life-altering events, and I would not have gotten through those times without God’s divine strength. No matter what my fortitude, or self-discipline, I could not have survived the onslaught without God’s help. I think there are lesser trials that also require holy intervention, strengthening our self-control. Surviving my daughter’s rebellious teenage years, my son’s obsession with skate boarding, my husband’s endless stress with work…. Whatever our particular brand of tribulation may be, God is always faithful. He is there to give us the stamina to endure our momentary trials and to bolster us up when our own strength and mastery are not enough. With His help we come out on the other side, wiser, stronger, more patient and more intimately connected to His heart.
It didn’t take me long to see that the idea of paddling a kayak in four foot waves was not a job for a novice. This took skill, strength and experience that neither I, nor Jim, possessed. While everyone else was stripping off their gear and loading back onto the bus, Jim and I were slowly making our way back to shore, one painful, laborious stroke after another, intent on the goal. George stood, hands on hip, with a gaze of genuine concern, watching our belabored effort to get that little red boat back to the Arubian shore. Every stroke brought us a bit closer, but the next wave took us a step back. We finally made it, and with a triumphant gesture, fell face forward on the sand, unable to move.
My self-control is only as refined as the Christ who gives me strength. All the tenacity in the world cannot replace the need for divine intervention in those moments where confidence is not enough. I thank God for that kayaking adventure and every time I think of it, I remember those four foot waves. If the Lord can strengthen my self- control, and gift me with the tenacity to make it across that water, I know He can help me in every other formidable battle I face.
Wonder what I’ll glean from our next romantic getaway?
My husband and I took a kid-less vacation to Aruba one summer when there was a special on airfare and hotel. We were in desperate need of some uninterrupted adult time and we’d never been there before. As we were flying in over the island I was enthralled with the beauty of the surrounding water…the vivid blues and deep greens were like nothing I’d ever seen. It looked like millions of tiny jewels dancing in sparkling symmetry on the water’s surface, as the sun shone through tiny, wispy clouds.
It was a short jaunt to the hotel from the airport and I was taken with how clean everything appeared. The shops and the streets were filled with people from all over the world. I was expecting lush green grass and lovely swaying palm trees, but found myself instead looking at cactus, and sand. Aruba is merely a small desert island.
We unpacked and went to talk to the concierge at the hotel about all the fun activities available to us in Aruba. We settled on a kayaking trip to Palm Island, an adjacent strip of land just off the Aruba coastline. I’d never been kayaking before, and this sounded like loads of fun. We hopped on the bus the next morning for the short trip to the launch site, and waited for our tour guide to appear.
In a few moments a deeply suntanned fellow sauntered up, shirtless, barefoot and with very long dreadlocks. I’d been looking for a man in a crisp white shirt and khaki shorts.
‘Good morning to you my friends! Are you ready for an adventure?” The impish smile on his face told me everything I needed to know. This was going to be interesting.
George, as our island tour guide was called, pointed us toward our bright red, fiberglass kayak, strapped us into our flotation devices and gave everyone a quick on- land lesson about ‘how to paddle a kayak.’
I’ve never been particularly co-coordinated, and in fact was always the last one picked for the softball team, after all other possibilities were exhausted. It wasn’t long before my husband became exasperated with my lack of paddle timing skills. Now tell me, who can successfully paddle in sand? Excuse me, but the last I checked, you need water to accomplish that goal. George, agreeing this might be of help to me, gave our little kayak a gentle push into the soft blue water. And off we went….in every direction you can imagine, but the right one. Who choose this kayak adventure? I was beginning to dislike the whole idea of it, and I hadn’t even mastered my paddle timing as yet.
While all the other kayakers were successfully making their way across the water to Palm Island, Jim and I were still paddling in circles, and all the while getting more and more aggravated with each other. So much for romantic getaways. George, being a kind- hearted fellow, took pity on us, lined his bright green kayak up with ours and shouted directions to us all the way to Palm Island. My husband was so humiliated. Men hate to take directions.
But it was worth the trip. Palm Island was a great place to snorkel and it wasn’t long until we were bedecked in all the necessary eye gear and breathing apparatus, and were ready to dive into the water. I have never in my life seen such glorious fish! Every color of the rainbow was represented in the most unusual shapes and sizes. These fellows were accustomed to being gawked at and would literally come up to you and eat right out of your hand. I couldn’t help but wonder how God comes up with such unique creatures.
All too soon, it was time to head back on our bright red kayak. After we were suited up into our flotation devices, George began to explain the challenges of our return voyage. It seems the water is easily paddled going to Palm Island, but there are four foot waves to navigate on the return. Funny, but George was looking straight at me the entire time he was explaining the perils awaiting us. I leaned over to Jim and said, “Are you noticing George is looking right at me?” “Yea hon, I think he wants you to ride in the kayak with him, and forget the idea of trying to paddle back.”
Incensed, I marched right up to George, and let him know in no uncertain terms that I could handle this trip back, and had no intention of riding in his bright green kayak. I would soon come to regret that decision.
I believe God gives us special gifts in that moment when we need them most….I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. And there have been more times than I can count that I have needed that unction, that supernatural strength to get me through the difficulties of life. When my baby spent endless hours in the hospital, when my father had a stroke, when Mother passed away, when our plane went down in the Missouri Ozarks… Those were life-altering events, and I would not have gotten through those times without God’s divine strength. No matter what my fortitude, or self-discipline, I could not have survived the onslaught without God’s help. I think there are lesser trials that also require holy intervention, strengthening our self-control. Surviving my daughter’s rebellious teenage years, my son’s obsession with skate boarding, my husband’s endless stress with work…. Whatever our particular brand of tribulation may be, God is always faithful. He is there to give us the stamina to endure our momentary trials and to bolster us up when our own strength and mastery are not enough. With His help we come out on the other side, wiser, stronger, more patient and more intimately connected to His heart.
It didn’t take me long to see that the idea of paddling a kayak in four foot waves was not a job for a novice. This took skill, strength and experience that neither I, nor Jim, possessed. While everyone else was stripping off their gear and loading back onto the bus, Jim and I were slowly making our way back to shore, one painful, laborious stroke after another, intent on the goal. George stood, hands on hip, with a gaze of genuine concern, watching our belabored effort to get that little red boat back to the Arubian shore. Every stroke brought us a bit closer, but the next wave took us a step back. We finally made it, and with a triumphant gesture, fell face forward on the sand, unable to move.
My self-control is only as refined as the Christ who gives me strength. All the tenacity in the world cannot replace the need for divine intervention in those moments where confidence is not enough. I thank God for that kayaking adventure and every time I think of it, I remember those four foot waves. If the Lord can strengthen my self- control, and gift me with the tenacity to make it across that water, I know He can help me in every other formidable battle I face.
Wonder what I’ll glean from our next romantic getaway?
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