Reaping Where We Have Not Sown

While sitting here, bloated from the Christmas feasting, though I'm not sure I feasted. I had no sugar, flour or wheat and turned down the immense temptation to order a pecan waffle at Waffle House. But I did have popcorn (non-GMO, of course) a few times and some amazing (real) french fries at Hudsons BBQ. At our family Christmas dinner, complete with roast beast (Jon's smoked brisket) and everything but the kitchen sink, sweet little ginger Addison piped up: "Yaya can't have sugar because she's already had too much!" I love the astute observations of children. We should all hark back to our youths and be so honest. That got me to thinking about the subject of sowing and reaping. There are so many things written and spoken about it, but I've never been so aware of the ramifications of it until my bones began to ache like the dickens in recent months. The doctor says it's rheumatoid arthritis, although my bloodwork doesn't tell that tale; the naturopath says it's from all the years of toxins that got released when I lost a bucketload of weight. It's the latter opinion that made me think about the sowing...

We all sow things, good or bad, especially in our youth. Some are noble causes, but often, we leap to sow to our spring-fed flesh. There are a lot of roads to go down when we're young, and we usually don't realize it's a road until it's too late. You can't really back up, because time doesn't behave like that. You can full-stop and reverse, but you're actually going to take a different road, not traverse from the original one. This can, in truth, be a very good thing. The mistakes and sins I've made often and usually inform my future choices. The broken road can light our path to the right one. Without regret, I can see that God leads us when we lay down in the dust of repentance, usually when we've fallen deep into the wagon wheel ruts of life. 

I love the Scriptures where they talk about Joseph. Remember him? He's the guy who was sold into slavery by his delightful brothers, then went from bad to worse, from rich to poor, then back again. He ended up ruling right under Pharoah in Egypt, eventually saving his bratty brothers who'd been lying about his supposed death to their distraught father for decades. What did he say to his family, who crouched in fear when the truth was revealed? "What Satan meant for evil, God meant for good."  That is the grace of God, where what appears to be the worst is actually His purposes moving forward. A prime example of when evil was sown to the wind, and God redeemed a people anyway. He does that. I'm really grateful that I don't actually get what I deserve...

Meanwhile, the new year yawns before us. After the two behind us, we're really ready to shed some roads. When the gym opens after January 1, it will be full of new converts. The diet plans and programs will make enough in a month or two to scoot by until the next year. I've tried all those resolutions - sometimes they work and mostly they don't. What I actually can do is walk better: By laying down my devices more; Stop and listen, instead of waiting for the other person to quit talking. Wake up and say, "God, I can't do this, but You can." Especially, do the next thing. My Daddy had a little sign on his workbench, and because I have his DNA deeply imprinted on my soul (which includes ADOS - "Attention Deficit, Ooooh Shiny!"), I should heed the same admonition. It says, and this was before Nike: "Just Do It." As I rise to get the dog out the door for her walk, I say, "Yes, Lord."  

The Fun Parts of Influencing

When our grandchildren come for a visit (usually because their beleaguered parents need a date night or a doctor visit), I do what I like to do: we either paint or play instruments. Of course, sometimes there's a meal (and a fluffy, mindless movie, if Yaya needs a quick nap on the couch). I'm not really crafty, but painting and playing music are my happy places, and I so want to impart that love to our little folks. When we paint, they all have their own pint-sized aprons and sets of watercolors. There are no rules or directions about what to create...they just have at it. Sometimes the colors are stormy and gray, sometimes drippy rainbows. I don't ask them "what is it?" -- rather, I ask them to "tell me about your picture." They always have a story. God knows we all need to take some time to listen to the stories of children, before we forget the wonder of seeing the world afresh. When they all get a little older, I'll start teaching them about perspective and lines and mixing colors, but for now I want them to learn to be comfortable with throwing any and everything onto the paper. 

Sometimes I need to practice my flute while the young 'uns are here, so we make our own little orchestra. Some of them play the piano (no banging!), some sing, some toot on the tin whistles I have laying around. Occasionally one of them will make something into a drum, and my flute cleaning tool becomes the conductor's wand. These are all brief forays into music land, but loads of fun and maybe, just maybe, will be small doors into the areas these children are inclined towards later. 

Whatever path God has put us on, be it the creative places or cooking or proficiency with a calculator, there are others, both small and great, that can learn or be blessed by those paths. To contort myself into subjects that bring great pain to me might be needful at times, but when it comes to my grandkids, we're going to go where the fun is. God made us all different, glory be. We also all have our compelling thoughts and agendas that dominate our lives. I figure there are greater reasons for these, maybe eternal ones, that I don't understand, but I want to be an influence where it's possible. Lord help me to not be an influence where I wane in my weaknesses, though there's beauty to be found from ashes. I know for a fact that this is true. 

And happy late Christmas shopping to all, as I am right there with you!  

So. Much. Human.

One evening, during our fall family beach trip, two of our gargantuan sons leaped up after their team scored in a rousing game of Catch Phrase. They were fist bumping, then dancing, then belly-bumping. We were roaring with laughter when our third son jumped in with them and yelled: "So much human!" And while I'm sitting here, still chuckling about the image and hilarity of that night, I'm also thinking about how overwhelming is the weight of our humanness. Maybe it's the panoply of the last two years or the reality of the effects of gravity on my last few decades, but some days it seems like too much. In the naivete of my youth, I thought I'd get better and better, and that old age would just be a resting phase before glory. Little did I know that the real (and in truth, noble) challenges would come when strength ebbed and the burgeoning weight of reality became plainer. It was easier to muster through when muscles were thick and spry, when waking up wasn't a marathon unto itself. I know now that trusting God is harder when you've seen the dark side of hardships on every side. 

I believe that this is the way it's supposed to be. This life is not all there is. And for those who believe that it is, I do not see how they can have hope in their old age or through difficulties. The manifest picture of the new + old testaments is that we need saving, that we are not adequate in and of ourselves, and that there is a Redeemer who pays the price for that redemption. This last Sunday, the heart of the sermon in our church was about when the Israelites were slaves under the thumb of a wicked Pharoah. It's a long story, so I'd highly recommend reading it yourself, even if you know it. After many trials, the final solution that leads to their escape was the death of a lamb, with its blood applied to the doorposts and lintel of each house. The angel of death passed over each home that was under the covering of that blood, leading to their salvation and subsequent exodus out of Egypt. It's a gruesome history, full of death, blood, and grisly details. But it's also a picture of what Christ, the ultimate sacrifice, accomplished in His death and resurrection. It's a beautiful truth, weaving in and out of the scriptures, beginning in the garden with Adam and Eve and ending with the great revelation. 

And here it's Christmastime, with all the insanity and rushing about. Here's to an orange and some brazil nuts in the stockings, because we've gone way overboard (me especially). Last week, when I was melting down over all the overcommitting I have done, I laid my head on my desk and asked God what in the world. Why do we have to fill up every minute? And why do we make more of Christmas than of Easter? And why is it so hard to make the notes work on my flute? I have two concert commitments in the next week, and I keep thinking, "After that, I'll stop and breathe." Life gets like that, where we're just hankering for the next thing to be over, so we can get back to "normal." Truth is, there is no normal, there is no stopping the life train from happening. There is always the next hill. If I only keep hoping for the hill to be done with, I'm never going to find serenity in the here and now. How many folks have we seen, who keep saying that "when I retire..." and then they drop dead in six months, or become terribly ill and never get to enjoy it? No. I'm not going to wait until next week, next year, to relax and drink in what is right in front of me. I'm not going to listen to the siren song of the urgent today. I'm going to noodle on my flute with some joy (not despairing of the notes I apparently am incapable of hitting); I'm going to dandle my new grandbaby on my lap; I'm going to blow raspberries on another grandbaby's cheeks when he gets here in an hour; I'm going to squeeze my grandson and granddaughter who just moved in with us (along with their parents, thank God); I'm going to FaceTime the other three grandchildren who I'm missing terribly; and I'm going to kiss my husband full on the mouth when he walks in, just for fun. No more ba humbug!