Let's be clear from the top: judgment and discernment are not the same.
This is fairly obvious to the one doing the discerning, but not so much to the one being discerned.
I know, because I've been in both places. Many times.
I hear it often. "You're judging me." "The Bible says not to judge." "Everyone's judging me."
It is easy to fall into a self-righteous mode. "No-one judges me but God."
And they're right. No one should judge but God. To use Seussian terminology, I WOULD NOT, COULD NOT judge another person.
The Bible is clear in James 4:11-12:
Speak not evil one of another, brethren. He that speaketh evil of his brother, and judgeth his brother, speaketh evil of the law, and judgeth the law: but if thou judge the law, thou art not a doer of the law, but a judge. There is one lawgiver, who is able to save and to destroy: who art thou that judgest another?
There are few events that are recounted in great detail in all four gospels but Jesus' words on judging others is one. "Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged.." (Matthew 7:1-2)
I do NOT want to be judged the same way my human nature tends to judge. I know the Lord is more merciful than I am and I will not subject myself to the unyielding scorn that comes from the flesh.
Besides, how can I cast any stones?
I WAS that woman in John Chapter 8 and if Jesus had not defended me, I wouldn't be where I am today.
I have compassion. And empathy. And love.
I have a heart for the lost and dying and I do not sit in judgment because I, too, was once lost and dying.
But I do have discernment. In fact, anyone with the Holy Spirit residing within them has a measure of discernment. It's that "feeling" when something isn't quite right, the intuitive knowing when the words are right, but the spirit is off. It's also how you know, immediately after meeting someone, that you've just met a fellow brother or sister in Christ.
Discernment is an incredible gift from the Lord, one that should be used with wisdom.
I've seen people use a "gift of discernment" to ridicule someone, to destroy groups, and to spread gossip. I tend to think that if you are using discernment for destruction, it isn't a gift from the Holy Spirit at all but rather familiar spirits revealing things for evil intentions.
God builds up; He doesn't blow up.
But He does tell us in Galatians 6 to help someone overtaken by sin. That means not to look the other way nor to allow the person to continue in their deception. To speak up with boldness is the right, godly thing to do. As long as it is done with meekness and love.
It isn't often received well. Who wants to be "called out" for doing wrong?
I didn't.
A little over a year ago I lost hearing in my right ear. If it was a spiritual test, I failed miserably. I spiraled quickly. I went from an outgoing, bubbly hospitality queen to a tired, cranky hermit.
And I didn't want to hear a word about it.
I got defensive when people would ask my husband what was wrong. HOW DARE THEY JUDGE ME, I'd fume. I'd use their concerns to further alienate myself, placing the blame on them instead of where it belonged. Solely on me.
I now realize, with the clarity of hindsight, that they were concerned. I wasn't myself and they knew it. I was angry at myself, probably a little angry at God, and had absolutely no idea how to get back to where I needed to be.
Fortunately, God did and He guided me back to that place where He covered me and became my shield (Psalm 91:4).
By then I was a little embarrassed and wouldn't have minded moving to a foreign country where no-one knew me, but that wasn't an option so I had to face my "accusers" in open court a.k.a. Sunday morning church.
Wow. Give me this jury after every trial because all I heard once I came out from under my dark cloud was "Glad you're feeling better." That's it.
There never was any judgment, just concern and love. And as quickly as it had started, it was over.
True discernment from true Christians brings truth. Truth in love. Truth in light. Truth that makes darkness dissipate.
Three Simple Do's and Don'ts of Discernment:
1. Don't believe that the world is judging you when truth is revealed. Do remember that truth is the biggest weapon against darkness.
2. Don't use your discernment to harm someone. Do speak truth in love, with meekness and kindness.
3. Don't run away just because others see you in a fault. We ALL have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. (Romans 3:23) True friends, real Christians, will stand with open arms for you just as you've done for them.
Saturday, December 9, 2017
Saturday, November 4, 2017
A Kingdom Kindermat
By Friday afternoon I needed a nap.
I haven't been a big fan of naps since my firstborn arrived with her days and nights obviously mixed up.
In fact, I was sympathetic to the kindergarteners in my class who absolutely hated when it was time to pull their mats out. So we had a little secret. After the first 5-10 ten minutes, when everyone else was asleep, the no-nappers could play quietly with a toy while I looked over papers and wrote lesson plans.
It worked.
When Dale and I married, I marveled at his ability to fall asleep for a quick nap wherever he was. It is sometimes slightly insulting when I am mid-sentence, and downright scary when he is driving, but I do admire the peace one must have to sleep so peacefully at any time.
It has taken me considerably longer to master the art of peaceful sleep. But I am getting there and it is a true miracle to lay my head down, no medication and no jumbled thoughts, and go to sleep. However, I make sure not to sleep late in the morning not to nap in order to keep getting that restorative sleep.
But this week was unusual.
From notifying the wrong family of their son's death due to a mix-up with the county coroner to sitting with a dying woman I'd grown close to on the streets, it was one of the toughest weeks I'd had yet.
A job offer came in the midst of it, and I had to discern if it was a door God was opening or a very close match.
Note that a very close match isn't actually God. It may look like God; it may sound like God; and it might just be an answer to prayer.
But the devil opens doors too. And sometimes we go pretty far down the path before we realize it.
I didn't want to make a mistake.
I'd done that before.
So I prayed. And I listened.
In the midst of everything going on in my personal life and on the streets, I also had nine women who needed me. Their lives couldn't be put on hold just because mine had gotten busy.
So I kept going. Getting up even earlier and staying up later, I took care of my house, my husband, my dogs, the business, the bills, and the church before heading to the hospital each day. We had five services this week, and I thank God for every one of them. I needed to be refueled this week.
But Friday afternoon I was exhausted.
"Susan" had died the day before and I'd notified a few of her friends, at the family's request. Ironically, her former long-time companion was in a separate wing of the hospital at the same time but when I stopped by to tell him of her passing, he was in such a bad state that he didn't know who I was. But those on the streets did.
And her death hit hard. While the other guy had died after overdosing, Susan died waiting on disability so she could get a place to live. She spent the last few months in pain, self-medicating with alcohol while undetected cancer spread throughout her body.
Nobody knew. Not even her.
Now her death was bringing their decisions and their own mortality to light. It was a mirror no-one wanted to look into.
Including me.
Because I'd gotten so tired of the games and manipulation my heart had recently been hardening toward the people that had occupied the most space there for the last few years.
With her death, it softened. And the floodgates opened. Compassion, empathy, sorrow, grief- a barrage of feelings enveloped me and I was overwhelmed.
I led the devotion at the Women's Home Friday morning and took a resident to a job interview. A trip to Mandeville got canceled last minute so I took advantage of the unexpected break and napped.
Or tried to.
My husband has been working on our new house from sun-up 'til sun-down every day this week and he must have subconsciously (intentionally?) plotted his revenge because he woke me up unnecessarily three times before I gave up and just spent some time with the Lord, going over it all.
Sometimes you just need a nap.
But, sometimes, you just need to pull out a kingdom kindermat, a quiet time where you can just rest in the Lord and allow Him to minister to your needs.
I haven't been a big fan of naps since my firstborn arrived with her days and nights obviously mixed up.
In fact, I was sympathetic to the kindergarteners in my class who absolutely hated when it was time to pull their mats out. So we had a little secret. After the first 5-10 ten minutes, when everyone else was asleep, the no-nappers could play quietly with a toy while I looked over papers and wrote lesson plans.
It worked.
When Dale and I married, I marveled at his ability to fall asleep for a quick nap wherever he was. It is sometimes slightly insulting when I am mid-sentence, and downright scary when he is driving, but I do admire the peace one must have to sleep so peacefully at any time.
It has taken me considerably longer to master the art of peaceful sleep. But I am getting there and it is a true miracle to lay my head down, no medication and no jumbled thoughts, and go to sleep. However, I make sure not to sleep late in the morning not to nap in order to keep getting that restorative sleep.
But this week was unusual.
From notifying the wrong family of their son's death due to a mix-up with the county coroner to sitting with a dying woman I'd grown close to on the streets, it was one of the toughest weeks I'd had yet.
A job offer came in the midst of it, and I had to discern if it was a door God was opening or a very close match.
Note that a very close match isn't actually God. It may look like God; it may sound like God; and it might just be an answer to prayer.
But the devil opens doors too. And sometimes we go pretty far down the path before we realize it.
I didn't want to make a mistake.
I'd done that before.
So I prayed. And I listened.
In the midst of everything going on in my personal life and on the streets, I also had nine women who needed me. Their lives couldn't be put on hold just because mine had gotten busy.
So I kept going. Getting up even earlier and staying up later, I took care of my house, my husband, my dogs, the business, the bills, and the church before heading to the hospital each day. We had five services this week, and I thank God for every one of them. I needed to be refueled this week.
But Friday afternoon I was exhausted.
"Susan" had died the day before and I'd notified a few of her friends, at the family's request. Ironically, her former long-time companion was in a separate wing of the hospital at the same time but when I stopped by to tell him of her passing, he was in such a bad state that he didn't know who I was. But those on the streets did.
And her death hit hard. While the other guy had died after overdosing, Susan died waiting on disability so she could get a place to live. She spent the last few months in pain, self-medicating with alcohol while undetected cancer spread throughout her body.
Nobody knew. Not even her.
Now her death was bringing their decisions and their own mortality to light. It was a mirror no-one wanted to look into.
Including me.
Because I'd gotten so tired of the games and manipulation my heart had recently been hardening toward the people that had occupied the most space there for the last few years.
With her death, it softened. And the floodgates opened. Compassion, empathy, sorrow, grief- a barrage of feelings enveloped me and I was overwhelmed.
I led the devotion at the Women's Home Friday morning and took a resident to a job interview. A trip to Mandeville got canceled last minute so I took advantage of the unexpected break and napped.
Or tried to.
My husband has been working on our new house from sun-up 'til sun-down every day this week and he must have subconsciously (intentionally?) plotted his revenge because he woke me up unnecessarily three times before I gave up and just spent some time with the Lord, going over it all.
Sometimes you just need a nap.
But, sometimes, you just need to pull out a kingdom kindermat, a quiet time where you can just rest in the Lord and allow Him to minister to your needs.
Saturday, September 9, 2017
What I Thought Was an End Was Actually a New Beginning
I really thought this blog was done.
I hadn't stopped writing; quite the opposite, I was writing more. But this was a homeless blog. And my homeless ministry had ended.
Or so I thought.
After all, it was no longer bearing fruit.
In Luke Chapter 13, Jesus teaches the parable of the barren fig tree.
“A certain man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard, and he came seeking fruit on it and found none. Then he said to the keeper of his vineyard, ‘Look, for three years I have come seeking fruit on this fig tree and find none. Cut it down; why does it use up the ground?’ But he answered and said to him, ‘Sir, let it alone this year also, until I dig around it and fertilize it. And if it bears fruit, well. But if not, after that you can cut it down.’” (v. 6-9)
My own timeline was similar.
What began as a great work had turned into something more secular. I was housing and transporting in the name of ministry but sharing the gospel had been pushed to the back burner. They still got a dose of the Word on Sundays when I picked them up for church, but from Monday- Saturday, nothing changed.
Actually, from the moment I dropped them off after church on Sunday, they quickly and willingly returned to their own spiritual filth. Proverbs 26:11
What was I doing?!!
Then, late last year, a series of events occurred that had me surveying my fig tree.
I completely lost hearing in one ear causing panic and a rush to find answers.
One of the clients in our permanent supportive housing became more than I could handle, given my already weakening state.
And three of my most beloved homeless guys (including Scooter) were given the opportunity to move into an apartment, no strings attached. No job, no money, nothing. They didn't even have to get sober. All they had to do was leave the homeless camp.
AND THEY REFUSED!
I didn't understand.
And I wasn't sure what I was doing anymore.
My heart was still with the homeless and I didn't want to just quit. But I knew something had to change. I asked the Lord (my vineyard keeper) to give me time to get things right. I knew it was going to require some deep tilling around the roots. I was quite aware that some of the problem lied with me and I wanted to get things right.
Reflecting back last month, I told my dad and sister I knew I was about to head down the wrong road to which they both snorted, "About to?! Honey you blew past THAT exit at 90 mph and never looked back."
Well, maybe they were right. I definitely opened a door out of fear and frustration and found the force of all I'd come against for the last couple of years standing there ready for a full-fledged assault.
But this time it was different.
In the past, I'd gotten derailed and then sulked and licked my wounds before I decided to return to serving the Lord. I no longer had that option.
It wasn't so much that I still had a church to stand in front of each Sunday but the words of Sister Ellen from my ordination service. "You are now held to a higher calling." There would be no sulking. No hiding. And no running.
It was time to stand up and fight.
I went out on the streets and told everyone I was taking three months off. I wouldn't be available by phone and I wouldn't pick up for church. I turned my housing clients over to other organizations and I canceled all meetings.
I went back to that place with the Lord where everything made sense. The cross.
I began writing, finally finishing some work I'd started years ago. Bible studies, reflections, devotions. I prayed. I read my Bible for hours at a time.
At the end of three months I was ready to survey my tree a little more objectively. Okay, Lord, I said. You can cut it down. Whatever you have next for me, I'm ready. But in the meantime I'm going to serve you, worship you, and rest.
I was enjoying it. After going 24/7, I appreciated the slower pace. I cultivated friendships. I took time to smell the roses, both literally and figuratively.
And I kept writing.
I decided that this was my new ministry. The Lord was going to use me through my words. I have 18 different titles in varying stages and I was sure this was His plan.
When I got the call asking me to once again chair the review committee for homeless grants, I declined. That part of my life was over. I'd hewed around that tree and it had toppled over.
But she persisted. And I agreed.
It was something I enjoyed doing and I had the time.
At the same time, the men's transitional home we'd been ministering in was about to embark on a new journey with a women's campus. Would we be interested in helping there as well?
Their program is a 9-month Christian transitional home for men (and now women in a separate campus) who are recovering from alcohol or drug problems as they re-enter society through the workforce by living and working in a controlled living environment with graduating levels of privileges until their graduation.
Having already grown close to the founders, we were happy to help. I could write curriculum for the women; I was already writing 6-7 hours a day. Not so coincidentally, I'd pursued a PhD in curriculum and instruction before we moved from Oklahoma to Mississippi, so this would be my way of "doing something" with a degree I was unable to complete.
Two months into my writing for women I'd yet to meet, I felt a strange stirring within. It wasn't as strange as it was scary. I couldn't make a ministry mistake again so I didn't immediately acknowledge it. I toe-tested the water.
Committing only to helping out from time to time, we discussed policies and procedures and plans and growth and problems unique to women. I kept writing, devising a binder of self-study devotions and program rules.
When the binder was 90% complete, I received a call.
"We're interviewing Program Directors this week," they said. "We'd like for you to be a part of this process and to help whoever we hire."
That stirring inside went into full-blown blender mode. No, I realized, the Lord has had this for me the whole time. I just didn't trust that feeling until now. But do I want to commit?
"I'd like to do it myself, " I surprised us all by saying just three days later. "And I don't need a salary."
The last statement might've been shocking to them, but my husband understood.
As a young woman I'd wanted to go see a popular Christian speaker at my home church. Everyone was talking about it and it was a big draw for our town. But with four young kids, I couldn't afford the $35 ticket price.
I made a vow to the Lord right then. If He ever used me, I would not take a dime.
I've still held true to that promise.
We don't take a salary for the church or the ministry. The Lord provided by allowing us to manage a company owned by our associate pastor, a business that quadrupled its business when the proceeds began being used to further the gospel. I can work from home or on the road, taking orders and sending invoices. It is something I enjoy doing and not at all time-consuming.
It has been a true example of Where God Guides, He Provides. (Thank you, Jenni, for reminding me of that early on.)
Once the commitment was made, we went full-force. I met the girls and started working on individual plans. My review committee meeting reminded me that transitional homes fall under homeless status.
My fig tree had life.
It turns out that something I thought was dead wasn't dead after all. I had been so focused on one dead branch that I didn't realize I was no longer looking at the whole tree.
My tree may have withered and fallen over, but it had a strong root.
And like the wild grass that peppers our church lawn, it may have bent over to the point where it looked like it had been cut, but all it took was a good rain to pop back up.
I'm excited for this new journey in my life.
It is new in many ways, but it's also a continuation of what the Lord started three years ago.
I'm excited to see where it goes.
I will continue to periodically share posts relating to the homeless ministry on this blog but I am mostly focusing on the new blog: www.askgigielizabeth.blogspot.com Feel free to follow both!
I hadn't stopped writing; quite the opposite, I was writing more. But this was a homeless blog. And my homeless ministry had ended.
Or so I thought.
After all, it was no longer bearing fruit.
In Luke Chapter 13, Jesus teaches the parable of the barren fig tree.
“A certain man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard, and he came seeking fruit on it and found none. Then he said to the keeper of his vineyard, ‘Look, for three years I have come seeking fruit on this fig tree and find none. Cut it down; why does it use up the ground?’ But he answered and said to him, ‘Sir, let it alone this year also, until I dig around it and fertilize it. And if it bears fruit, well. But if not, after that you can cut it down.’” (v. 6-9)
My own timeline was similar.
What began as a great work had turned into something more secular. I was housing and transporting in the name of ministry but sharing the gospel had been pushed to the back burner. They still got a dose of the Word on Sundays when I picked them up for church, but from Monday- Saturday, nothing changed.
Actually, from the moment I dropped them off after church on Sunday, they quickly and willingly returned to their own spiritual filth. Proverbs 26:11
What was I doing?!!
Then, late last year, a series of events occurred that had me surveying my fig tree.
I completely lost hearing in one ear causing panic and a rush to find answers.
One of the clients in our permanent supportive housing became more than I could handle, given my already weakening state.
And three of my most beloved homeless guys (including Scooter) were given the opportunity to move into an apartment, no strings attached. No job, no money, nothing. They didn't even have to get sober. All they had to do was leave the homeless camp.
AND THEY REFUSED!
I didn't understand.
And I wasn't sure what I was doing anymore.
My heart was still with the homeless and I didn't want to just quit. But I knew something had to change. I asked the Lord (my vineyard keeper) to give me time to get things right. I knew it was going to require some deep tilling around the roots. I was quite aware that some of the problem lied with me and I wanted to get things right.
Reflecting back last month, I told my dad and sister I knew I was about to head down the wrong road to which they both snorted, "About to?! Honey you blew past THAT exit at 90 mph and never looked back."
Well, maybe they were right. I definitely opened a door out of fear and frustration and found the force of all I'd come against for the last couple of years standing there ready for a full-fledged assault.
But this time it was different.
In the past, I'd gotten derailed and then sulked and licked my wounds before I decided to return to serving the Lord. I no longer had that option.
It wasn't so much that I still had a church to stand in front of each Sunday but the words of Sister Ellen from my ordination service. "You are now held to a higher calling." There would be no sulking. No hiding. And no running.
It was time to stand up and fight.
I went out on the streets and told everyone I was taking three months off. I wouldn't be available by phone and I wouldn't pick up for church. I turned my housing clients over to other organizations and I canceled all meetings.
I went back to that place with the Lord where everything made sense. The cross.
I began writing, finally finishing some work I'd started years ago. Bible studies, reflections, devotions. I prayed. I read my Bible for hours at a time.
At the end of three months I was ready to survey my tree a little more objectively. Okay, Lord, I said. You can cut it down. Whatever you have next for me, I'm ready. But in the meantime I'm going to serve you, worship you, and rest.
I was enjoying it. After going 24/7, I appreciated the slower pace. I cultivated friendships. I took time to smell the roses, both literally and figuratively.
And I kept writing.
I decided that this was my new ministry. The Lord was going to use me through my words. I have 18 different titles in varying stages and I was sure this was His plan.
When I got the call asking me to once again chair the review committee for homeless grants, I declined. That part of my life was over. I'd hewed around that tree and it had toppled over.
But she persisted. And I agreed.
It was something I enjoyed doing and I had the time.
At the same time, the men's transitional home we'd been ministering in was about to embark on a new journey with a women's campus. Would we be interested in helping there as well?
Their program is a 9-month Christian transitional home for men (and now women in a separate campus) who are recovering from alcohol or drug problems as they re-enter society through the workforce by living and working in a controlled living environment with graduating levels of privileges until their graduation.
Having already grown close to the founders, we were happy to help. I could write curriculum for the women; I was already writing 6-7 hours a day. Not so coincidentally, I'd pursued a PhD in curriculum and instruction before we moved from Oklahoma to Mississippi, so this would be my way of "doing something" with a degree I was unable to complete.
Two months into my writing for women I'd yet to meet, I felt a strange stirring within. It wasn't as strange as it was scary. I couldn't make a ministry mistake again so I didn't immediately acknowledge it. I toe-tested the water.
Committing only to helping out from time to time, we discussed policies and procedures and plans and growth and problems unique to women. I kept writing, devising a binder of self-study devotions and program rules.
When the binder was 90% complete, I received a call.
"We're interviewing Program Directors this week," they said. "We'd like for you to be a part of this process and to help whoever we hire."
That stirring inside went into full-blown blender mode. No, I realized, the Lord has had this for me the whole time. I just didn't trust that feeling until now. But do I want to commit?
"I'd like to do it myself, " I surprised us all by saying just three days later. "And I don't need a salary."
The last statement might've been shocking to them, but my husband understood.
As a young woman I'd wanted to go see a popular Christian speaker at my home church. Everyone was talking about it and it was a big draw for our town. But with four young kids, I couldn't afford the $35 ticket price.
I made a vow to the Lord right then. If He ever used me, I would not take a dime.
I've still held true to that promise.
We don't take a salary for the church or the ministry. The Lord provided by allowing us to manage a company owned by our associate pastor, a business that quadrupled its business when the proceeds began being used to further the gospel. I can work from home or on the road, taking orders and sending invoices. It is something I enjoy doing and not at all time-consuming.
It has been a true example of Where God Guides, He Provides. (Thank you, Jenni, for reminding me of that early on.)
Once the commitment was made, we went full-force. I met the girls and started working on individual plans. My review committee meeting reminded me that transitional homes fall under homeless status.
My fig tree had life.
It turns out that something I thought was dead wasn't dead after all. I had been so focused on one dead branch that I didn't realize I was no longer looking at the whole tree.
My tree may have withered and fallen over, but it had a strong root.
And like the wild grass that peppers our church lawn, it may have bent over to the point where it looked like it had been cut, but all it took was a good rain to pop back up.
I'm excited for this new journey in my life.
It is new in many ways, but it's also a continuation of what the Lord started three years ago.
I'm excited to see where it goes.
I will continue to periodically share posts relating to the homeless ministry on this blog but I am mostly focusing on the new blog: www.askgigielizabeth.blogspot.com Feel free to follow both!
Monday, September 4, 2017
Perception is a mighty thing
What does water taste like?
You'd assume there was only one correct answer. All other water had a funny taste.
But what I've come to realize is that identifying "normal" water is purely subjective.
I didn't learn that lesson until my husband and I vacationing and eating at a Cracker Barrel early in our marriage.
"This water is horrible," I complained.
"No, it's not," he replied while looking at me quizzically. "It tastes fine."
"It tastes like it came out of a ditch," I persisted.
"That's because you prefer your water with a lot of chlorination in it."
He'd said that before, drinking tap rather than my preferred Dasani bottles, but I always thought he didn't know what he was talking about. Dasani wasn't chlorinated; it was just normal water.
Like I grew up with.
But sitting in that Cracker Barrel, I realized for the first time that the normal taste of water for people is usually based on what the water tasted like where they grew up. All other water tastes different.
For some reason, this was profound to me.
Something as simple as water couldn't even have an absolute truth. No man can say, "THIS is the true taste of water."
It is all in our perception.
It took me a couple of years ministering on the streets before I realized that what I considered normal wasn't necessarily what others saw as normal. I knew I leaned toward the feminine romanticism a little more than most. For me, aprons and white picket fences and refrigerator drawings and roses for no reason were indicative of a life well lived. But if experiences were a Venn diagram, the things in the middle would be loving families, guidance, education, goals...
I didn't realize my perception was skewed by an upbringing that was only normal in my rose-colored world. Many people have led lives that we could never diagram because the shared experiences portion would remain blank.
But for them it was normal.
Going to jail wasn't an eye-opening experience. It was following in the family footsteps.
Drinking and drugging weren't done with the hopes you wouldn't be caught and grounded, they were done openly at home. Some were even forced to participate as young children, an amusing sight for wasted grown-ups.
Their normal was different from mine and their dreams were altered because of it.
I think this is the part that surprised me the most.
I knew that not everyone grew up the same way I did. I know some people had it rough. I just didn't consider that this changed what they wanted out of life. I thought that regardless of where everyone came from, they wanted to get to the same place.
And that's simply not true.
Some people just want to ride out their lives without any goals, dreams, or joy. They want lust, not love, and peace attained by a 6-pack is just as good as the peace God gives.
It is a different tasting water.
I've gained enough wisdom in this ministry to no longer try to get someone to accept my version of normal water as the only way. A job, a home, restored families...that's not necessarily the way for everyone.
But Jesus?
Well, that's one absolute truth in which there is no variance. James 1:17
You'd assume there was only one correct answer. All other water had a funny taste.
But what I've come to realize is that identifying "normal" water is purely subjective.
I didn't learn that lesson until my husband and I vacationing and eating at a Cracker Barrel early in our marriage.
"This water is horrible," I complained.
"No, it's not," he replied while looking at me quizzically. "It tastes fine."
"It tastes like it came out of a ditch," I persisted.
"That's because you prefer your water with a lot of chlorination in it."
He'd said that before, drinking tap rather than my preferred Dasani bottles, but I always thought he didn't know what he was talking about. Dasani wasn't chlorinated; it was just normal water.
Like I grew up with.
But sitting in that Cracker Barrel, I realized for the first time that the normal taste of water for people is usually based on what the water tasted like where they grew up. All other water tastes different.
For some reason, this was profound to me.
Something as simple as water couldn't even have an absolute truth. No man can say, "THIS is the true taste of water."
It is all in our perception.
It took me a couple of years ministering on the streets before I realized that what I considered normal wasn't necessarily what others saw as normal. I knew I leaned toward the feminine romanticism a little more than most. For me, aprons and white picket fences and refrigerator drawings and roses for no reason were indicative of a life well lived. But if experiences were a Venn diagram, the things in the middle would be loving families, guidance, education, goals...
I didn't realize my perception was skewed by an upbringing that was only normal in my rose-colored world. Many people have led lives that we could never diagram because the shared experiences portion would remain blank.
But for them it was normal.
Going to jail wasn't an eye-opening experience. It was following in the family footsteps.
Drinking and drugging weren't done with the hopes you wouldn't be caught and grounded, they were done openly at home. Some were even forced to participate as young children, an amusing sight for wasted grown-ups.
Their normal was different from mine and their dreams were altered because of it.
I think this is the part that surprised me the most.
I knew that not everyone grew up the same way I did. I know some people had it rough. I just didn't consider that this changed what they wanted out of life. I thought that regardless of where everyone came from, they wanted to get to the same place.
And that's simply not true.
Some people just want to ride out their lives without any goals, dreams, or joy. They want lust, not love, and peace attained by a 6-pack is just as good as the peace God gives.
It is a different tasting water.
I've gained enough wisdom in this ministry to no longer try to get someone to accept my version of normal water as the only way. A job, a home, restored families...that's not necessarily the way for everyone.
But Jesus?
Well, that's one absolute truth in which there is no variance. James 1:17
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
When STANDING just isn't enough....
I’ve said before that if you can’t keep going, dig in your
heels and just STAND.
I think I was wrong.
When you stop, the weight and the force of the world are
coming against you. (After all, if you are walking with Christ, you ARE walking
against the current of the world.)
And no matter how hard you fight it, that current can be
mighty strong.
In the middle of a trial, you can be battle-drawn and weary.
You may long to stop and rest. You may even want to surrender completely to the
enemy, as it seems you are on the losing side.
But you aren’t.
That’s where faith comes in.
You have to KNOW that if you are in God’s army, you are on
the winning team.
The war has already been won and the battle you are in is so
very minute in comparison.
It may not feel so inconsequential though, especially when
you are in the midst of it.
It may feel as if the whole universe has come against you.
That’s why you have to keep your eyes on Him and KEEP
MOVING.
It’s the only way to keep from falling down.
I’ll admit I’m in the midst of a trial I do not understand
at all. I don’t know if I’m lacking patience, faith, or obedience. Maybe I’m
being tested. I don’t even know how I’m doing on this test.
I’m probably at about a C+ right now.
I honestly don’t know.
A week ago I completely lost the hearing in my right ear.
Thinking it was a simple fix, I tried a couple of
tried-and-true ear opening methods. When those failed, I reached out on social
media. I tried a few more things. I even went to a walk-in clinic and was given
a clean bill of ear health.
Over the next few days later other seemingly unrelated
symptoms popped up and I thought maybe I was coming down with the flu on top of
a sinus infection.
On Sunday morning, I laid it all out for the Lord as we
partook in the Lord’s Supper. I felt His presence and I knew I would be healed.
Only I wasn’t. Or maybe I was but the healing hadn’t
manifested itself.
In any case, I broke down in tears afterward. I was so sure
I’d be jumping up and down praising the Lord for restoring my hearing in that
service that I never considered otherwise.
I was heartbroken.
I napped Sunday afternoon and returned to the evening
service a little less enthusiastic. It was hard to hear, hard to concentrate.
But I still believed.
So at the end of the service I called upon the elders of the
church to pray over me. I was going to do EVERYTHING by the (Good) Book.
Once again, I expected to share my delight at being able to
hear again.
It still didn’t happen.
I went to bed frustrated, though not angry. I can’t let
anger in; it is too hard to let go.
Was I doing something
wrong?
I didn’t believe the Lord was punishing me nor did I believe
he wanted this for me.
But what WAS He thinking?
I needed more time? More faith? More patience?
If I went back to the doctor, would that be wrong? A lack of
faith? Impatience?
Or was it foolish NOT to go? To possibly treat something
before it got worse…
I didn’t know.
I did know, however, that I couldn’t just STAND. Because I
kept getting knocked flat on my rear and was ready to give everything up,
ministry included. How could I help
people when I couldn’t hear?
Even the dogs were aggravating me as their barks
reverberated in my head, sounding louder in the one good ear and causing a
headache. Their kisses, which I normally adore, were as irritating as nails on
a chalkboard.
I couldn’t live like this.
I made the decision to see an ENT (Ear, Nose, and Throat
doctor). I searched online since I didn’t know one here and found a doctor with
great reviews in Mobile.
They were able to see me that afternoon.
What I didn’t realize was that this doctor specialized in
auditory issues so I was given a comprehensive hearing screening upon arrival.
The news was not surprising.
Sudden hearing loss in my right ear.
I had that part figured out.
However, I expected him to discover a raging sinus infection
the general practitioner had missed, give me some antibiotics, and, WORST CASE
SCENARIO, have to surgically clear out my tube.
That wasn’t the case.
He diagnosed me with a non-rash form of shingles which had
attacked the right side of my body.
That made sense.
The right toenails I’d ripped off because they felt like
they were attacking my feet. The chest pains that I dismissed because they were
on the right side only. The increased back pain I attributed to my increased
consumption of Christmas candy.
It was all related.
But then came the scary part.
He could prescribe steroids and an antiviral for the
symptoms of shingles but the hearing loss might be permanent.
Even worse, he suspected an acoustic neuroma. This is a
small, noncancerous tumor on the nerve between the brain and the inner ear. It
is confirmed with an MRI, way out of my price range without insurance. Then
another hearing test back in his office, extensive enough that I must have a
driver.
In the meantime I am praying for healing to avoid all of
this. But in the event that it doesn’t come?
I decided I would just accept it.
Which is a little tricky.
Because I don’t accept illness as something God wants.
But if I don’t accept this, at least for now, I will put my
life on hold. I will use it as an excuse to stop ministering, to crawl in a
hole and have a pity party, and I will destroy everything.
I know.
I’ve done it before.
A few years ago, following back surgery, I quit living.
Alienating my family and friends, I lived in a world of television and four
walls, angry, depressed, and wishing I was dead.
I will not go back there.
So while I believe in a complete and total healing, I will not
sit idly by waiting for it to happen. I am going to keep walking, even if it’s
at a snail’s pace, until that day.
It’s a trial I don’t understand, one I may never understand
this side of glory, but one I will willingly go through because it’s only a battle,
not the war.
The war for my soul has already been won and the price He
paid for that was more than I will ever have to endure.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Standing in the gap...or standing in the way?
I don't give up easily.
Actually, if someone tells me not to do something, I usually dig my heels in and do it anyway out of spite.
That's probably one of my less godly traits.
I can be stubborn...and rebellious.
I also have a soft spot for the underdog, be it a sports team or a person.
I figure they need all the extra help they can get.
So it isn't surprising that I can be found on the streets giving all I have, and often getting nothing in return.
Because it isn't about me anyway.
I've pleaded with the Lord to heal people near death, to deliver from addiction, and to show mercy when it wasn't deserved or even desired.
I've begged to stand in the gap and intercede for those I've grown to care deeply for.
But yesterday something new happened.
He told me to walk away.
It isn't the first time I've backed off from someone on the streets. Sometimes they need a little more time in the hole before they hit rock bottom and reach up. Some never do.
But I'm never more than an arm's length away from anyone who reaches out.
Until now.
Scooter, who I've written about several times, has a very special place in my heart. I care deeply for him and I would consider him a friend. Even when he is not doing well (which has been the case for the last three months) he still stays in touch by text and I occasionally visit.
Last week he had his third opportunity to get true help. He had the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket, a free apartment and furnishings, and the opportunity to get off the streets for the first time in ten years. He fell apart (fear?) the first two times this came to pass and got so drunk he was unable to even carry on a decent conversation.
On Thursday we talked about this. He wasn't going to let it happen this time. He knew he had self-sabotaged. He knew he may never get another chance like this. He was ready.
Friday morning he was in that exact same place again, unable to even come out of his tent.
That door closed with the housing organization.
I was aggravated, but it didn't stop me from caring or wanting to help him some other way.
But then Sunday morning came.
I stopped at Tent City to pick up for church, as usual, and even though I knew Scooter wouldn't come (he hasn't been in a few months) I wanted to step in and say hello.
My feet were like lead.
I literally couldn't move.
What's going on, I wondered. Lord?
That's it, He told me. You are done here. When he texts (and I knew he would) you are to tell him that you don't walk away unless the Lord tells you to and this seems to be between him and God.
I tried to explain, to expound, in my head what else I would say.
No. I've told you what to say. Not a word more or a word less.
I got it.
I hate it because I will be just another person who he feels has abandoned him. But I'm not going to interfere with what the Lord is doing.
After all, He is the reason I'm out there.
I thought I was standing in the gap...
Turns out I was just standing in the way.
Actually, if someone tells me not to do something, I usually dig my heels in and do it anyway out of spite.
That's probably one of my less godly traits.
I can be stubborn...and rebellious.
I also have a soft spot for the underdog, be it a sports team or a person.
I figure they need all the extra help they can get.
So it isn't surprising that I can be found on the streets giving all I have, and often getting nothing in return.
Because it isn't about me anyway.
I've pleaded with the Lord to heal people near death, to deliver from addiction, and to show mercy when it wasn't deserved or even desired.
I've begged to stand in the gap and intercede for those I've grown to care deeply for.
But yesterday something new happened.
He told me to walk away.
It isn't the first time I've backed off from someone on the streets. Sometimes they need a little more time in the hole before they hit rock bottom and reach up. Some never do.
But I'm never more than an arm's length away from anyone who reaches out.
Until now.
Scooter, who I've written about several times, has a very special place in my heart. I care deeply for him and I would consider him a friend. Even when he is not doing well (which has been the case for the last three months) he still stays in touch by text and I occasionally visit.
Last week he had his third opportunity to get true help. He had the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket, a free apartment and furnishings, and the opportunity to get off the streets for the first time in ten years. He fell apart (fear?) the first two times this came to pass and got so drunk he was unable to even carry on a decent conversation.
On Thursday we talked about this. He wasn't going to let it happen this time. He knew he had self-sabotaged. He knew he may never get another chance like this. He was ready.
Friday morning he was in that exact same place again, unable to even come out of his tent.
That door closed with the housing organization.
I was aggravated, but it didn't stop me from caring or wanting to help him some other way.
But then Sunday morning came.
I stopped at Tent City to pick up for church, as usual, and even though I knew Scooter wouldn't come (he hasn't been in a few months) I wanted to step in and say hello.
My feet were like lead.
I literally couldn't move.
What's going on, I wondered. Lord?
That's it, He told me. You are done here. When he texts (and I knew he would) you are to tell him that you don't walk away unless the Lord tells you to and this seems to be between him and God.
I tried to explain, to expound, in my head what else I would say.
No. I've told you what to say. Not a word more or a word less.
I got it.
I hate it because I will be just another person who he feels has abandoned him. But I'm not going to interfere with what the Lord is doing.
After all, He is the reason I'm out there.
I thought I was standing in the gap...
Turns out I was just standing in the way.
Friday, November 18, 2016
My Stalker Died and I'm Not Sure How I Feel About It
I just found out that my stalker died and I really don't know how I should be feeling.
Relieved? Elated? Safe?
He once told me if he couldn't have me, no-one would.
But that was over fifteen years ago, and even then, I didn't want him to die.
I just wanted a normal friendship.
I met T.C. when I was seventeen years old. I was a wild child with the immunity of a daddy in politics, and I was pushing every limit I could find. I fell in with a rough crowd, quickly achieving golden girl status as one of the only females around with all of my teeth and long blonde hair. They called me Goldilocks, Goldie for short.
I was also one of the only ones with a non-suspended driver's license so I frequently rode shotgun. I didn't realize why until the first time we got pulled over.
The driver was in his passenger seat and I found myself behind the steering wheel before we even came to a complete stop. I was so naive.
But while the wisdom came later in life, the heart for those in need came early.
Like the day I met T.C.
I'd gone to his house with one of the older girls I'd been hanging with. She said he got a check on the first of every month so he would have a bag of weed. All we had to do was go and be nice to him and he'd smoke some with us for free.
I was all in.
I liked him and I enjoyed our visit. Of course my main mission in life at that point was to get high so my expectations were low.
A few days later I asked my friend when we were going back to visit T.C.
"Oh, not til next month," she replied. "He only has weed for the first day then he's out til he gets his next check."
Now using guys for drugs wasn't exactly new territory for me but I felt really bad for him. Here was this 30-something year old guy who was being completely used by young women like me.
So I went to visit armed with two grocery bags.
"I've come to cook dinner for us," I told a shocked as I walked through the door.
"I don't have any smoke," he said as I made myself at home in his kitchen.
"That's okay," I said. "I didn't come for the pot. I came for a pot," I quipped as I started cooking.
We had a nice meal and I continued to visit every couple of weeks.
I had no romantic interest in him, but I did develop deep platonic feelings. I think whatever was broken inside of me recognized that something was broken deep inside him as well.
Over the next year I learned that T.C. had survived a tragic childhood. At the age of six, he witnessed his mother's murder at the hands of his father, who then turned the knife on him. The scars were brutal. Growing up in foster homes, he tormented other children and pets until he was returned, repeatedly, to social services.
At seventeen he moved out on his own, receiving a Social Security check for a multi-diagnoses mental disability. He was proud of the fact that the local Medicaid and Food Stamp Offices were so scared of him they granted him lifetime benefits, no recertification necessary.
He got his drugs and his girls when his check came in and once did time for handcuffing a prostitute to the bed for two weeks.
"I can't help it. I'm just crazy," he said. "You better be careful. I might do the same to you. I never know how I will act."
I called him out on that right away. "You don't fool me one bit, T.C." I told him. "You only act crazy so people will leave you alone. You know EXACTLY what you are doing."
That was the day he fell in love with me.
Only I didn't realize it at first.
What I DID realize was that he looked at me dumbfounded and said, "You are one smart little girl. I can't believe you are so young." I gave some flippant remark and we watched a little t.v. before I headed home. There was never anything sexual between us.
As the months went on, I started college and a part-time job at a daycare center. My visits with T.C. dwindled down and he was enraged.
Hiring a taxi to drive him to my work, he sat outside for several days in a row watching me.
He sent a mixed tape to my house ("Don't You Forget About Me" from the Breakfast Club soundtrack was featured prominently) along with a letter that said he was going to enroll in every one of my college classes and sit behind me until I talked to him.
I reluctantly told my dad what was going on.
I'm not sure exactly what happened after that, but I'm pretty sure that Dad's job as police chief and the radio silence from T.C. that followed were somehow related.
I didn't hear from him again for a couple of years.
Worried about him and having no good sense whatsoever, I went to visit.
He had nobody and I wanted to make sure he knew that I still cared, that SOMEONE in the world cared if he lived or died.
I told him all about my new boyfriend (and future husband).
He did NOT take the news well.
He started calling and following me again and I had no choice but to cut off all contact. Again.
I really didn't want to.
I didn't want to be yet another person in his life that abandoned him.
But I had no choice.
A few years later I was married and teaching fifth grade when the local tv station ran a human interest story on something my classroom was doing.
The next day a dozen roses appeared in my classroom.
He wanted me to know that he knew where to find me.
I think he received another not-so-subtle warning from the police department.
A few months later I had emergency surgery and was in my hospital room alone, hopped up on pain pills, when I had the stupid idea to call him.
That resulted in an armed guard outside my hospital room until I was discharged and me scrambling to explain how he knew where I was.
My then-husband, unbound by the letter of the law, paid him a visit.
That was the last time I ever saw or heard from him.
But not the last time I thought of him.
I hated it. I really wanted to be his friend. I really hated the thought of someone, ANYONE, living in this world with absolutely no-one who cared.
I cared.
He just couldn't know.
When I first started working with the homeless, particularly with the mentally ill, I immediately thought of T.C.
How is he? What is he doing? Is he still alive?
I tried to track him down online. I wasn't sure if I would do anything with it, but I wanted to know.
I asked my dad. "Remember that guy?"
"I think he died," my dad responded. Immediately.
I'm pretty sure he was just making sure I didn't open that can of worms, no matter what calling was now on my life.
From time to time I'd think of him, especially when I'd meet someone new on the streets who had no-one.
At least they now had ME.
And if I couldn't still be T.C.'s friend, I could be a friend to them.
Then today I got the news.
My son, now an officer for the same dept. my dad once ran, had remembered me talking about my desire to know how T.C. was doing. He'd be turning 66 next month and I still hated the thought of him celebrating each birthday alone.
My son sided with my dad in wanting to make sure I didn't stir a hornet's nest. "I know you, Mom," he'd protest. "If I find him, you're going to try to save him. You'll say you won't, but you will. I know you." He's right. I probably would have.
But he also knew I'd keep asking until I knew. I can be persistent, especially when it comes to those I care about.
So he ran a search.
T.C. died in 2004.
Alone.
There was no service, no obituary, no-one to notify.
I don't know how long he was dead before anyone noticed. My guess is the landlord went in when the rent was due and found him.
I didn't know how to react.
I wasn't surprised; I'd half-expected it despite the absence of his death anywhere online.
But I was sad.
I mourned his childhood, the one he'd have had if his mother had lived. Or the one he could've had if someone had seen past the actions of a scared, angry little boy.
I mourned his adult life, the thirty-seven years society shut him up in a rental and told him to stay away.
Most of all I mourned our friendship, one I couldn't maintain but never forgot.
Relieved? Elated? Safe?
He once told me if he couldn't have me, no-one would.
But that was over fifteen years ago, and even then, I didn't want him to die.
I just wanted a normal friendship.
I met T.C. when I was seventeen years old. I was a wild child with the immunity of a daddy in politics, and I was pushing every limit I could find. I fell in with a rough crowd, quickly achieving golden girl status as one of the only females around with all of my teeth and long blonde hair. They called me Goldilocks, Goldie for short.
I was also one of the only ones with a non-suspended driver's license so I frequently rode shotgun. I didn't realize why until the first time we got pulled over.
The driver was in his passenger seat and I found myself behind the steering wheel before we even came to a complete stop. I was so naive.
But while the wisdom came later in life, the heart for those in need came early.
Like the day I met T.C.
I'd gone to his house with one of the older girls I'd been hanging with. She said he got a check on the first of every month so he would have a bag of weed. All we had to do was go and be nice to him and he'd smoke some with us for free.
I was all in.
I liked him and I enjoyed our visit. Of course my main mission in life at that point was to get high so my expectations were low.
A few days later I asked my friend when we were going back to visit T.C.
"Oh, not til next month," she replied. "He only has weed for the first day then he's out til he gets his next check."
Now using guys for drugs wasn't exactly new territory for me but I felt really bad for him. Here was this 30-something year old guy who was being completely used by young women like me.
So I went to visit armed with two grocery bags.
"I've come to cook dinner for us," I told a shocked as I walked through the door.
"I don't have any smoke," he said as I made myself at home in his kitchen.
"That's okay," I said. "I didn't come for the pot. I came for a pot," I quipped as I started cooking.
We had a nice meal and I continued to visit every couple of weeks.
I had no romantic interest in him, but I did develop deep platonic feelings. I think whatever was broken inside of me recognized that something was broken deep inside him as well.
Over the next year I learned that T.C. had survived a tragic childhood. At the age of six, he witnessed his mother's murder at the hands of his father, who then turned the knife on him. The scars were brutal. Growing up in foster homes, he tormented other children and pets until he was returned, repeatedly, to social services.
At seventeen he moved out on his own, receiving a Social Security check for a multi-diagnoses mental disability. He was proud of the fact that the local Medicaid and Food Stamp Offices were so scared of him they granted him lifetime benefits, no recertification necessary.
He got his drugs and his girls when his check came in and once did time for handcuffing a prostitute to the bed for two weeks.
"I can't help it. I'm just crazy," he said. "You better be careful. I might do the same to you. I never know how I will act."
I called him out on that right away. "You don't fool me one bit, T.C." I told him. "You only act crazy so people will leave you alone. You know EXACTLY what you are doing."
That was the day he fell in love with me.
Only I didn't realize it at first.
What I DID realize was that he looked at me dumbfounded and said, "You are one smart little girl. I can't believe you are so young." I gave some flippant remark and we watched a little t.v. before I headed home. There was never anything sexual between us.
As the months went on, I started college and a part-time job at a daycare center. My visits with T.C. dwindled down and he was enraged.
Hiring a taxi to drive him to my work, he sat outside for several days in a row watching me.
He sent a mixed tape to my house ("Don't You Forget About Me" from the Breakfast Club soundtrack was featured prominently) along with a letter that said he was going to enroll in every one of my college classes and sit behind me until I talked to him.
I reluctantly told my dad what was going on.
I'm not sure exactly what happened after that, but I'm pretty sure that Dad's job as police chief and the radio silence from T.C. that followed were somehow related.
I didn't hear from him again for a couple of years.
Worried about him and having no good sense whatsoever, I went to visit.
He had nobody and I wanted to make sure he knew that I still cared, that SOMEONE in the world cared if he lived or died.
I told him all about my new boyfriend (and future husband).
He did NOT take the news well.
He started calling and following me again and I had no choice but to cut off all contact. Again.
I really didn't want to.
I didn't want to be yet another person in his life that abandoned him.
But I had no choice.
A few years later I was married and teaching fifth grade when the local tv station ran a human interest story on something my classroom was doing.
The next day a dozen roses appeared in my classroom.
He wanted me to know that he knew where to find me.
I think he received another not-so-subtle warning from the police department.
A few months later I had emergency surgery and was in my hospital room alone, hopped up on pain pills, when I had the stupid idea to call him.
That resulted in an armed guard outside my hospital room until I was discharged and me scrambling to explain how he knew where I was.
My then-husband, unbound by the letter of the law, paid him a visit.
That was the last time I ever saw or heard from him.
But not the last time I thought of him.
I hated it. I really wanted to be his friend. I really hated the thought of someone, ANYONE, living in this world with absolutely no-one who cared.
I cared.
He just couldn't know.
When I first started working with the homeless, particularly with the mentally ill, I immediately thought of T.C.
How is he? What is he doing? Is he still alive?
I tried to track him down online. I wasn't sure if I would do anything with it, but I wanted to know.
I asked my dad. "Remember that guy?"
"I think he died," my dad responded. Immediately.
I'm pretty sure he was just making sure I didn't open that can of worms, no matter what calling was now on my life.
From time to time I'd think of him, especially when I'd meet someone new on the streets who had no-one.
At least they now had ME.
And if I couldn't still be T.C.'s friend, I could be a friend to them.
Then today I got the news.
My son, now an officer for the same dept. my dad once ran, had remembered me talking about my desire to know how T.C. was doing. He'd be turning 66 next month and I still hated the thought of him celebrating each birthday alone.
My son sided with my dad in wanting to make sure I didn't stir a hornet's nest. "I know you, Mom," he'd protest. "If I find him, you're going to try to save him. You'll say you won't, but you will. I know you." He's right. I probably would have.
But he also knew I'd keep asking until I knew. I can be persistent, especially when it comes to those I care about.
So he ran a search.
T.C. died in 2004.
Alone.
There was no service, no obituary, no-one to notify.
I don't know how long he was dead before anyone noticed. My guess is the landlord went in when the rent was due and found him.
I didn't know how to react.
I wasn't surprised; I'd half-expected it despite the absence of his death anywhere online.
But I was sad.
I mourned his childhood, the one he'd have had if his mother had lived. Or the one he could've had if someone had seen past the actions of a scared, angry little boy.
I mourned his adult life, the thirty-seven years society shut him up in a rental and told him to stay away.
Most of all I mourned our friendship, one I couldn't maintain but never forgot.
Thursday, November 17, 2016
In a weird way, a compliment...
I pick up homeless guys for church every Sunday. It is usually a different group each week, all with varying degrees of sobriety any given Sunday.
But they are trying, I'll give them that.
And they all try to persuade others to come.
My homeless guys are better than most of my church members at bringing guests.
But last Sunday, something happened that seemed like an insult, but was probably the biggest compliment ever.
One of the guys started telling me about another homeless guy I'd never met.
"I keep telling him he needs to meet you but he just runs off," Brian told me.
Brian is prone to exaggeration so I figured he was being dramatic.
Then I got a little offended.
What have I done that's so bad this guy doesn't want to meet me.
Several others piped up.
"I know him too."
"I tried to get him to come to church too."
"I gave him your card," Pete said.
Pete's always been pretty on-the-level with me so I was curious how this exchange went.
After all, I'd never even HEARD of the guy they were discussing, much less met him.
"What did he say?" I held my breath. (Sometimes I forget this isn't about me. This was one of those times.)
"He dropped that card like it was on fire and took off running as fast as he could."
"That's what he did with ME," Brian exclaimed.
I was silently stewing. How dare he act like there's something wrong with me?
Then it hit me. Rather, the Lord served a gentle wake-up call.
This wasn't about me at all.
This is a spiritual battle.
And a guy I've never met is terrified of me.
Not only does the Lord know my name but Satan does too.
And he ran scared.
I think that's about the best compliment I've ever gotten!
But they are trying, I'll give them that.
And they all try to persuade others to come.
My homeless guys are better than most of my church members at bringing guests.
But last Sunday, something happened that seemed like an insult, but was probably the biggest compliment ever.
One of the guys started telling me about another homeless guy I'd never met.
"I keep telling him he needs to meet you but he just runs off," Brian told me.
Brian is prone to exaggeration so I figured he was being dramatic.
Then I got a little offended.
What have I done that's so bad this guy doesn't want to meet me.
Several others piped up.
"I know him too."
"I tried to get him to come to church too."
"I gave him your card," Pete said.
Pete's always been pretty on-the-level with me so I was curious how this exchange went.
After all, I'd never even HEARD of the guy they were discussing, much less met him.
"What did he say?" I held my breath. (Sometimes I forget this isn't about me. This was one of those times.)
"He dropped that card like it was on fire and took off running as fast as he could."
"That's what he did with ME," Brian exclaimed.
I was silently stewing. How dare he act like there's something wrong with me?
Then it hit me. Rather, the Lord served a gentle wake-up call.
This wasn't about me at all.
This is a spiritual battle.
And a guy I've never met is terrified of me.
Not only does the Lord know my name but Satan does too.
And he ran scared.
I think that's about the best compliment I've ever gotten!
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
A Long Hard Look at Myself Through a Small, Round Dental Mirror
I have had a time lately with my teeth.
A broken tooth led to an abscess, which eventually led to a root canal.
It has been several weeks of pure torture.
I didn't realize how much this was affecting my entire mood until my new little puppy went into a full-on panic mode when I began laughing hysterically at a clip from America's Funniest Home Videos.
"What's wrong with him?" I asked my husband. "Do I not laugh anymore?"
"Not in a long time," he begrudgingly admitted.
Taken aback and more than a little ashamed of myself, I vowed to do better, no matter how bad I was feeling.
My efforts were less than stellar.
Quite frankly, I'm a big baby when I don't feel well. I want my mommy and I want everyone else to leave me alone.
But I did have enough wisdom to know not to make any decisions, especially regarding the ministry, while I was feeling this way.
Because I was ready to abandon the entire homeless ministry. They weren't changing, nobody cared, I was wasting my time....
Of course that wasn't entirely true. We'd gotten two people off the streets during this period and I'd attended the graduation of a girl I never expected to complete her rehab stay. Not only did she graduate, she was hired on to staff!
So there were some positive moments.
Lesson: It is so easy to skew your vision based on your mood and mindset.
I did, however, back off a little from some of my "regulars" who frequently regard me as their personal shopper and chauffeur.
"What do they think I am, a taxi?" I'd snap to my husband.
"They aren't any different than they've always been," he replied.
This was true. The difference was definitely me. So I tried to to get out of the flesh and back in the Spirit.
Lesson: It is VERY hard to ignore the flesh when the flesh is hurting.
So I did what is probably considered a cardinal sin for ministers.
I blocked several numbers.
Not content with just keeping my ringer off, I actually blocked the numbers of my most high-maintenance people. I not only didn't want to answer their calls, I didn't even want to know that they called.
It was a much quieter week and after the first few days, I didn't even feel bad that I'd blocked them.
Then came yesterday.
It was time to return to the original dentist, the one who'd sent me to the endodontist for the root canal. He was to put a permanent filling in before making a mold for a crown. (At this point, I'm wondering why I didn't listen to my husband and just pull the thing weeks ago but I was almost through by then.)
Lacking the refined techniques of the specialist, he bumbled around in my mouth hitting my lip, tongue, and non-numbed gums. Gripping the chair's armrests, I was admittedly jumpy, but pretty still given the fact that I didn't want my tongue drilled down as well.
I can only assume this somehow insulted the good doctor, as he actually got mad at me for being uncomfortable.
"This is between you and me now," he grumbled.
What is he talking about? I wondered. Is he sending the technician out?
I've opted to use the laughing gas, and while I wasn't laughing, I was fairly relaxed, albeit confused.
"There's going to be no charge for today and I never want to see you again. You will find someone else."
Wait, what? What's happening? I dared to open my eyes to see the older gentleman peering into my mouth with the tightest jawline I'd ever seen.
He's mad at me? What?!! Surely the laughing gas has made me delirious. How is this dentist upset at me for being uncomfortable in a dental chair? I mean, right? People aren't relaxed in dental chairs.
By the time he finished, I was sure that a) I was not hallucinating and b) he was furious at me.
"IN ALL MY FORTY YEARS AS A DENTIST I HAVE NEVER MET A PATIENT AS UNCOOPERATIVE AS YOU!" he screamed as he stormed out of the room.
Unable to hold back tears, I was visibly shaken.
"Wh-wh-what did I do wrong?" I whisper-cried to the sole witness in the room.
"Nothing." She was clearly caught between a rock and hard place. Console the sobbing patient she'd been left with and betray her boss? "You were just a little apprehensive and it made him nervous."
A popular phrase from the 80's immediately popped in my head, one that referred to a fictional detective but also contained a 4-letter word that I no longer use, so I refrained from speaking it.
"Okayyy, but what did I do that was so bad?"
"You didn't do anything wrong. Don't worry about it."
Don't worry about it? DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT?!! Are you kidding me? I've just been left mid-procedure (turns out he WAS finished, just didn't bother cleaning the bits of filling that were all over my mouth) AND banned from a dental office. It's not like I visit the dentist for fun.
The poor guy who was entering the office did a double take as I emerged a hysterical mess. He had to have thought twice about keeping THAT appointment.
I sat in my car trying to compose myself before driving.
I was unsuccessful.
But I didn't want to stay in the parking lot any longer so I drove through my tears.
My first call was to the friend who'd recommended him. She should suffer too, right?! But she was unavailable.
I then called my dad. Daddies make everything better. He would have this guy investigated by the FBI, I was sure of it. But he didn't answer.
I reluctantly called my husband. Now he was feeling the pain of the bill for these procedures already so I wasn't sure how he'd respond.
But like my knight in shining armor he offered to go give the dentist a piece of his mind.
Thank you, but that's okay. I wanted to be angry but I wasn't. I was still too dumbfounded.
What kind of dentist gets mad at a patient for being uncomfortable?!!
I then called my best friend. I was going on an hour post-visit and my crying hadn't even slowed a drop.
She gave me the required encouragement ("You didn't do anything wrong.") with the typical bff back-up ("We're going to report him to the board for this.") punctuated by not-quite-cursing swear words like craptastic.
I finally stopped crying.
But I could not stop repeating the phrase, WHAT KIND OF DENTIST GETS MAD AT A PATIENT FOR BEING UNCOMFORTABLE?
I said it at least every thirty minutes. I thought it even more.
I fell asleep on the couch, emotionally drained while my little puppy looked the salty remnants of tears from my face. Awakening with a slight crick in my neck but a buoyancy in my Spirit, the Lord had prepared my heart during my nap.
As the devil does with things that bother you, the darts started the minute I sat up. Reliving the hurt and humiliation of being thrown out of a dentist's office, that familiar thought crept back in.
What kind of dentist gets mad at a patient for being uncomfortable?
This time that still, small voice was ready.
Kind of like a minister that gets mad at lost people for not living right...
Talk about humbling oneself in the sight of the Lord...
There was no arguing, no justification. He was right. I'd been wrong.
Yes, the dentist had been wrong but he was in the profession to save teeth, not lives.
I'd blown it big time.
I immediately removed the blocks from my phone.
Not sure how to explain my radio silence, I sent a (slightly misleading) text out.
"Hey how's it going? My notifications on my phone were off so if you called or sent me a message this week I didn't get it."
The relieved texts came flooding in.
"I've texted you all week." "Thank you! I wondered why you never answered."
I was wrong, but I wouldn't dwell on it. The lesson had been learned and it was a tough one.
Thankfully, He is a forgiving God.
I, too, will have to forgive.
But I still have to find a new dentist.
A broken tooth led to an abscess, which eventually led to a root canal.
It has been several weeks of pure torture.
I didn't realize how much this was affecting my entire mood until my new little puppy went into a full-on panic mode when I began laughing hysterically at a clip from America's Funniest Home Videos.
"What's wrong with him?" I asked my husband. "Do I not laugh anymore?"
"Not in a long time," he begrudgingly admitted.
Taken aback and more than a little ashamed of myself, I vowed to do better, no matter how bad I was feeling.
My efforts were less than stellar.
Quite frankly, I'm a big baby when I don't feel well. I want my mommy and I want everyone else to leave me alone.
But I did have enough wisdom to know not to make any decisions, especially regarding the ministry, while I was feeling this way.
Because I was ready to abandon the entire homeless ministry. They weren't changing, nobody cared, I was wasting my time....
Of course that wasn't entirely true. We'd gotten two people off the streets during this period and I'd attended the graduation of a girl I never expected to complete her rehab stay. Not only did she graduate, she was hired on to staff!
So there were some positive moments.
Lesson: It is so easy to skew your vision based on your mood and mindset.
I did, however, back off a little from some of my "regulars" who frequently regard me as their personal shopper and chauffeur.
"What do they think I am, a taxi?" I'd snap to my husband.
"They aren't any different than they've always been," he replied.
This was true. The difference was definitely me. So I tried to to get out of the flesh and back in the Spirit.
Lesson: It is VERY hard to ignore the flesh when the flesh is hurting.
So I did what is probably considered a cardinal sin for ministers.
I blocked several numbers.
Not content with just keeping my ringer off, I actually blocked the numbers of my most high-maintenance people. I not only didn't want to answer their calls, I didn't even want to know that they called.
It was a much quieter week and after the first few days, I didn't even feel bad that I'd blocked them.
Then came yesterday.
It was time to return to the original dentist, the one who'd sent me to the endodontist for the root canal. He was to put a permanent filling in before making a mold for a crown. (At this point, I'm wondering why I didn't listen to my husband and just pull the thing weeks ago but I was almost through by then.)
Lacking the refined techniques of the specialist, he bumbled around in my mouth hitting my lip, tongue, and non-numbed gums. Gripping the chair's armrests, I was admittedly jumpy, but pretty still given the fact that I didn't want my tongue drilled down as well.
I can only assume this somehow insulted the good doctor, as he actually got mad at me for being uncomfortable.
"This is between you and me now," he grumbled.
What is he talking about? I wondered. Is he sending the technician out?
I've opted to use the laughing gas, and while I wasn't laughing, I was fairly relaxed, albeit confused.
"There's going to be no charge for today and I never want to see you again. You will find someone else."
Wait, what? What's happening? I dared to open my eyes to see the older gentleman peering into my mouth with the tightest jawline I'd ever seen.
He's mad at me? What?!! Surely the laughing gas has made me delirious. How is this dentist upset at me for being uncomfortable in a dental chair? I mean, right? People aren't relaxed in dental chairs.
By the time he finished, I was sure that a) I was not hallucinating and b) he was furious at me.
"IN ALL MY FORTY YEARS AS A DENTIST I HAVE NEVER MET A PATIENT AS UNCOOPERATIVE AS YOU!" he screamed as he stormed out of the room.
Unable to hold back tears, I was visibly shaken.
"Wh-wh-what did I do wrong?" I whisper-cried to the sole witness in the room.
"Nothing." She was clearly caught between a rock and hard place. Console the sobbing patient she'd been left with and betray her boss? "You were just a little apprehensive and it made him nervous."
A popular phrase from the 80's immediately popped in my head, one that referred to a fictional detective but also contained a 4-letter word that I no longer use, so I refrained from speaking it.
"Okayyy, but what did I do that was so bad?"
"You didn't do anything wrong. Don't worry about it."
Don't worry about it? DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT?!! Are you kidding me? I've just been left mid-procedure (turns out he WAS finished, just didn't bother cleaning the bits of filling that were all over my mouth) AND banned from a dental office. It's not like I visit the dentist for fun.
The poor guy who was entering the office did a double take as I emerged a hysterical mess. He had to have thought twice about keeping THAT appointment.
I sat in my car trying to compose myself before driving.
I was unsuccessful.
But I didn't want to stay in the parking lot any longer so I drove through my tears.
My first call was to the friend who'd recommended him. She should suffer too, right?! But she was unavailable.
I then called my dad. Daddies make everything better. He would have this guy investigated by the FBI, I was sure of it. But he didn't answer.
I reluctantly called my husband. Now he was feeling the pain of the bill for these procedures already so I wasn't sure how he'd respond.
But like my knight in shining armor he offered to go give the dentist a piece of his mind.
Thank you, but that's okay. I wanted to be angry but I wasn't. I was still too dumbfounded.
What kind of dentist gets mad at a patient for being uncomfortable?!!
I then called my best friend. I was going on an hour post-visit and my crying hadn't even slowed a drop.
She gave me the required encouragement ("You didn't do anything wrong.") with the typical bff back-up ("We're going to report him to the board for this.") punctuated by not-quite-cursing swear words like craptastic.
I finally stopped crying.
But I could not stop repeating the phrase, WHAT KIND OF DENTIST GETS MAD AT A PATIENT FOR BEING UNCOMFORTABLE?
I said it at least every thirty minutes. I thought it even more.
I fell asleep on the couch, emotionally drained while my little puppy looked the salty remnants of tears from my face. Awakening with a slight crick in my neck but a buoyancy in my Spirit, the Lord had prepared my heart during my nap.
As the devil does with things that bother you, the darts started the minute I sat up. Reliving the hurt and humiliation of being thrown out of a dentist's office, that familiar thought crept back in.
What kind of dentist gets mad at a patient for being uncomfortable?
This time that still, small voice was ready.
Kind of like a minister that gets mad at lost people for not living right...
Talk about humbling oneself in the sight of the Lord...
There was no arguing, no justification. He was right. I'd been wrong.
Yes, the dentist had been wrong but he was in the profession to save teeth, not lives.
I'd blown it big time.
I immediately removed the blocks from my phone.
Not sure how to explain my radio silence, I sent a (slightly misleading) text out.
"Hey how's it going? My notifications on my phone were off so if you called or sent me a message this week I didn't get it."
The relieved texts came flooding in.
"I've texted you all week." "Thank you! I wondered why you never answered."
I was wrong, but I wouldn't dwell on it. The lesson had been learned and it was a tough one.
Thankfully, He is a forgiving God.
I, too, will have to forgive.
But I still have to find a new dentist.
Saturday, October 8, 2016
Do The Right Thing?
I attended a funeral this week for the sister of one of my homeless guys.
I'd met her a couple of years ago and we had talked occasionally on the phone so when she ended up in ICU a few weeks ago, I went to visit.
It was touch and go for awhile. with her moving to a regular room for 16 hours before landing back in ICU in an even more critical condition.
But before that happened, I had the salvation conversation with her.
Early in the ministry, I'd decided to hold off on that conversation because the guy seemed to be getting better. The next day he took a turn for the worse and never regained consciousness. I vowed never to make that mistake again.
So the first day that Ms. Becky was alert enough to talk, we talked about her relationship with the Lord. She knew where she was going. She wanted to go to a regular room, but she knew if that didn't happen and she didn't make it, that she would be with the Lord.
I shared that during the open comments portion of the funeral.
I hadn't planned on it, but I felt a strong urging to do so.
If there was ever a time to not heed that call, this service was the one. I was definitely out of my element, and was clearly viewed as an outsider.
But I knew that every time I ignore those urgings, I regret it later.
And it needed to be said.
The family drew comfort in my words, I could tell, and it helped celebrate her life.
Her children had arranged this service in a Catholic church about an hour from her hometown so the priests didn't know Ms. Becky and only read the obituary.
It happens.
You always want a minister who knows the deceased, but that isn't always possible.
So I wanted in some way for her loved ones to take comfort in godly words from someone who knew her.
The service itself was a little puzzling, almost paradoxical.
The lady leading music was a friend of the family's. She could've led worship for T.D. Jakes.
I felt a freedom in worshipping that I rarely have. The spirit was moving and if it hadn't been a funeral, I think I'd have been hopping over pews. (For clarity, I'm normally not very comfortable even lifting my hands in worship.)
But the mass itself was traditional, with the usual rituals of Catholicism.
I wasn't completely out of place in a Catholic church, having gone to elementary school in a Catholic school and later teaching in one.
But some of the responses have changed!
I'm answering "and also with you" while they said something about the spirit.
When did that happen?
But the part that bothered me the most was not about the music, or the communion, or the responsive readings.
It was the message given by the priest about how we know Ms. Becky is in heaven.
"We know she is in Heaven because she was a good person...."
My ears perked up. Surely he's going to clarify that...
"This is how you know you are saved...
...do the right thing. Do the right thing. Do the right thing."
While I didn't directly address his words, I did let the congregation know when I spoke that Ms. Becky knew she was going to Heaven because she had accepted Jesus as her Savior.
It was my attempt to salvage a lost opportunity for many of the family members, one who'd even arrived in hand and ankle chains, to hear the message of salvation.
That evening we preached at a men's transitional home and I shared the experience.
"Most of you wouldn't be here if you'd been doing the right thing to begin with, but let me tell you...you can do the right thing from here on out, but if you don't accept Jesus, if you don't KNOW Him, you WILL NOT get into Heaven."
To quote a dear friend, YOU NEED TO MAKE SURE YOU HAVE THAT KNOW-SO SALVATION AND NOT THE HOPE-SO ONE.
Do you KNOW? Or do you just HOPE you are saved?
There's a big difference.
And all the RIGHT in the world is not enough to enter the kingdom of God.
I'd met her a couple of years ago and we had talked occasionally on the phone so when she ended up in ICU a few weeks ago, I went to visit.
It was touch and go for awhile. with her moving to a regular room for 16 hours before landing back in ICU in an even more critical condition.
But before that happened, I had the salvation conversation with her.
Early in the ministry, I'd decided to hold off on that conversation because the guy seemed to be getting better. The next day he took a turn for the worse and never regained consciousness. I vowed never to make that mistake again.
So the first day that Ms. Becky was alert enough to talk, we talked about her relationship with the Lord. She knew where she was going. She wanted to go to a regular room, but she knew if that didn't happen and she didn't make it, that she would be with the Lord.
I shared that during the open comments portion of the funeral.
I hadn't planned on it, but I felt a strong urging to do so.
If there was ever a time to not heed that call, this service was the one. I was definitely out of my element, and was clearly viewed as an outsider.
But I knew that every time I ignore those urgings, I regret it later.
And it needed to be said.
The family drew comfort in my words, I could tell, and it helped celebrate her life.
Her children had arranged this service in a Catholic church about an hour from her hometown so the priests didn't know Ms. Becky and only read the obituary.
It happens.
You always want a minister who knows the deceased, but that isn't always possible.
So I wanted in some way for her loved ones to take comfort in godly words from someone who knew her.
The service itself was a little puzzling, almost paradoxical.
The lady leading music was a friend of the family's. She could've led worship for T.D. Jakes.
I felt a freedom in worshipping that I rarely have. The spirit was moving and if it hadn't been a funeral, I think I'd have been hopping over pews. (For clarity, I'm normally not very comfortable even lifting my hands in worship.)
But the mass itself was traditional, with the usual rituals of Catholicism.
I wasn't completely out of place in a Catholic church, having gone to elementary school in a Catholic school and later teaching in one.
But some of the responses have changed!
I'm answering "and also with you" while they said something about the spirit.
When did that happen?
But the part that bothered me the most was not about the music, or the communion, or the responsive readings.
It was the message given by the priest about how we know Ms. Becky is in heaven.
"We know she is in Heaven because she was a good person...."
My ears perked up. Surely he's going to clarify that...
"This is how you know you are saved...
...do the right thing. Do the right thing. Do the right thing."
While I didn't directly address his words, I did let the congregation know when I spoke that Ms. Becky knew she was going to Heaven because she had accepted Jesus as her Savior.
It was my attempt to salvage a lost opportunity for many of the family members, one who'd even arrived in hand and ankle chains, to hear the message of salvation.
That evening we preached at a men's transitional home and I shared the experience.
"Most of you wouldn't be here if you'd been doing the right thing to begin with, but let me tell you...you can do the right thing from here on out, but if you don't accept Jesus, if you don't KNOW Him, you WILL NOT get into Heaven."
To quote a dear friend, YOU NEED TO MAKE SURE YOU HAVE THAT KNOW-SO SALVATION AND NOT THE HOPE-SO ONE.
Do you KNOW? Or do you just HOPE you are saved?
There's a big difference.
And all the RIGHT in the world is not enough to enter the kingdom of God.
Saturday, October 1, 2016
Blinded by the Light
The other day I heard the song "Blinded By the Light" by
Bruce Springsteen.
Though the Manfred Mann's Earth Band version is the one we heard in the 80's, it was originally penned by The Boss.
None of this really matters, mind you, but before writing this post I had to do a little research.
Like, what in the world are they actually saying?
My research led me to the lyrics and further reading explained that the line "revved up like a deuce" referred to a 1932 hot rod.
Furthermore, the entire song was never intended to make much sense, with Springsteen saying he wrote the tune using a rhyming dictionary.
One of the rhyming, nonsensical verses:
No deep meaning, just words.
I really didn't have an issue with the song. Except...
...for the title lyric.
BLINDED BY THE LIGHT
Cause it isn't the light that blinds.
It's the darkness.
Sometimes it is hard to apply physical concepts to spiritual matters.
For example, I'd never get upset at a blind person for not being able to see.
They're blind. It isn't their fault they can't see.
Yet there are so many walking around in spiritual darkness, blind as a bat, and we get upset with them.
Even the disciples were chastised by Jesus at one point for not knowing what manner of spirit they were operating in. (Luke 9:55)
There are people who are constantly trying to manipulate me. They've learned the buzz words: homeless, stable housing, hungry. Lately many conversations have started with "I heard you were a woman of God..." setting up the premise that if I do not provide the assistance requested, I must not truly be a Christian.
I actually was accused of just that the other day. "Aren't you supposed to be a Christian?" Followed by "I called you for a ride to the store and you said you couldn't take me."
I guess Christian and Cab are supposed to be synonymous. Alliterative, yes. Synonyms, no.
But that doesn't bother me.
This in itself is HUGE. I used to care so much what other people thought of me that comments like that would've thrown me into a tailspin for days.
But it's just manipulation and I lettered in that in high school.
So I just move right along.
I do what I can but I'm starting to guard my time a little more fiercely.
I told someone just last night that I was finally learning to run my own schedule instead of letting my schedule run me.
There's still not a lot of downtime. Just this week were three hospital visits, one wedding, one funeral, and one baptism. Plus we are building a new parsonage with no contractor and no crew so that has kept me a little closer to home.
That, in turn, has cut down considerably on my time on the streets.
Which has upset a few people.
Because it is often like having a houseful of kids again.
If I take one to lunch, the others want to know why they couldn't go.
If I buy one pair of shoes, I have to listen to how twenty other pairs were worse than the ones I replaced.
And to drive their point home (the point being that they are the only one truly deserving of being ministered to) they tell me how fake the others are. How they lie, how they speak "God" around me but live like the devil when I'm not around, how they are using me.
I usually don't respond. At best, I'll just nod.
But the other day I'd had enough.
"I know a whole lot more than you think I do and I don't do anything I don't want to."
That was all it took and nothing else was said.
I could've elaborated.
"You know that Megan Trainor song? The one I hear in my head every time any of y'all speak? I know you're lyin'...cause your lips are movin'..."
Or worse, I could've told them that the "God" speak hurts my heart even more than the lies and I'd rather him them curse than pepper their conversations with phrases like "Blessed by the Best" and "Blessed and Highly Favored."
Just because they don't know what manner of spirit they are speaking, I certainly do.
But I can't get mad at them for not being able to see.
They're spiritually blind.
And they haven't been blinded by the Light.
They're blinded by the darkness they live in and cannot see the light at all.
What they think is the light is the fake glow Satan has set in front of them.
Can you tell a knockoff Birkin bag from the real one? Are all red-soled shoes Louboutins?
While a designer can easily spot the fake, most people can not. I certainly couldn't.
The things of God are no different.
Well, actually they are VASTLY different. But the concept is the same.
We cannot expect a lost person to know, obey, or even discern spiritual matters.
We can only guide them, such as we'd assist a physically blind person.
We can pray for their eyes to be opened.
And we must always remember the attack is not on us personally. It is a war that started long before we were even conceived and will continue on long after we are gone, should the Lord tarry.
Blinded by the light?
Never.
And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. John 1:5
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