Start Somewhere

Where to begin when you don’t know where to begin?

It seems an easier question to answer when it’s someone else’s life or problem. In those scenarios I rarely lack words.
“Just begin,” I say. “Start somewhere. Anywhere. Lose the first pound. Organize one area. Fill out an application. Create a résumé. Introduce yourself. Just begin.”

I find having this conversation with myself less clear.

All my life I’ve flirted with thoughts of being a writer. Full disclosure: I don’t know that I love writing as much as I love the exploration and communication of critical thoughts and ideas. Writing is simply the most effective means by which I do so. Yet, it’s hard to be faithful to a thing that is somewhat indefinable and elusive.
What makes one a writer? Is it a degree or an ability? Is it both? Is it having a bestseller or published work/s? Is it an earning amount? Or is it the frequency of, and faithfulness to writing clearly and concisely? Additionally, writing holds no guarantee of success nor any accolades for even trying it should that success fail to come. It’s hours of precious time and thought often for a solo audience. So, you could see how one could procrastinate or reason it away in favor of a more achievable, promising adventure.

At this point you might suspect that anyone wrestling with the thoughts above is neither serious nor passionate about writing. The unfaithfulness, lack of commitment and achievement, along with questions about whether to continue writing is all proof. You could be right but there is more.

There is a level of confidence innate to trying.  One must know or at least suspect they hold potential, or a product worth offering, or else why try? In pursuit of any passion we must also confront the nagging questions: Do I have what it takes to publicly succeed, or is this merely a private fascination? In a world with many offerings, what can I add? Is it worth sharing? I had similar thoughts and questions when I began this blog. I hold them still. Only it’s worse now. 

Since I began this blog, I have started and failed at not only being a consistent and successful writer (whatever that is), but in other areas as well. These experiences bolster the doubt. They fan flames of failure. And isn't that the gist of it; we fear failure. And so we procrastinate. We run to surer things. Interestingly, my detours from writing into the "safer spaces" of reliable employment, activity, and clear ability did not protect me from the failure I was attempting to avoid by escaping into them. And all the while I was still nagged by thoughts of writing.

I’ve considered these things silently. I return to this long neglected blog to ponder out loud my place in an articulate, world of conversations. Is there room for me? Is there anything new that I can add? Do I have what it takes? If so, where do I begin?

Here. 

This is my somewhere. It’s my attempt to act in faith that God gave me something to say. Perhaps this is why thoughts of writing persist.  So I obey the tug and begin.

This is my somewhere. 
 

What’s yours? Share it below and let’s do it together. I hope you will join me and begin today.

 GET UP MOODY!

How she got the name, I’ll never know. She certainly didn’t earn it. “Moody” was remarkably even keeled. It had to be a joke, like in the movies where “Big Mike” is small, and “Tiny Joe” is actually a giant. Still, “Moody” was the name assigned my grandmother, and she wore it proudly. Sometimes she would use it when speaking to herself. One of her favorite phrases was, “Get up Moody!” She’d often say it after she’d had a brief rest. It was her “get back to work” phrase. Ironically, “Moody” was the hardest working person I knew. So, much like her nickname, I didn’t understand her use of that phrase either. She was familiar with grueling labor, and therefore well entitled to unbridled rest.  But with that one line command- “Get up Moody!” she’d reset her whole attitude. She'd plow through her tasks as though she was punched in on the time clock of God Himself. Indeed, she was. That is what I didn’t understand then. I understand it now.

Time is among our most valuable resources. If we are not deliberate with how we spend it, we will waste it waiting to “feel like doing’’ something before taking action. It’s a trap. How often do we feel like doing hard things? Rarely, if ever. Plus, life gives us many reasons to sit down. Those lacking motivation, focus, or discipline will stay down. I am sure there were days my grandmother wanted to. Instead, after tending the fields, the livestock, and the land, she cared for children and grandchildren, fed neighbors, and assisted friends. She delivered babies, and acted as a mortician too.

"Moody" did what her spirit believed was good and right, even if her abled body protested. “Get up Moody” was an assault on the urge to remain at rest. It was my grandmother’s way of letting her body know, "My feelings don’t run me, my will does. I'm committed to what's best, not what's easy." She pushed beyond her body’s desire, and led her flesh. Her “little phrase” was her spirit speaking to a body that didn’t “feel like it.” A confrontation between desire and will. Moody wasn’t super human, she simply refused to be controlled by anyone or anything, even if that thing was a part of her. If rest wasn’t best, she didn’t take it. If work was difficult, she didn’t run away from it.

In all these negotiations she did not complain. She was calm. To lose control, or serve begrudgingly would’ve negated the victories she scored over her body. It would have given her flesh the final word. It would’ve had no impact on me.

The lesson I learned was huge. How we feel should not be the criteria for what we do. Something greater must determine that. Good. Need. Love. Truth-something absolute. To be led by feelings is to remain in perpetual infancy. No mastery. No maturity. That’s not a life well lived. That’s instability. That’s bondage to the emotions chosen by our body. Spiritual death.

Four decades later, this grandchild, and witness of radical self-discipline, finds herself borrowing from the wisdom and strength found in the order, “Get up Moody!” When I start thinking, “I’m just going to lay down, binge watch a show, surf  YouTube, or stay down a while;” I hear those words:

“GET UP!!!”                                        

Get up is my encouragement to you. Resist “I don’t feel like it.” You have the power to do that. You don’t have to feel like it to do it. Do it because it is right, not convenient. True fulfillment does not live in your flesh or feelings. Your best intentions all exist in the spirit. They are manifested by the work of your hands, the work of body. It’s largely what separates humans from animals. In our spirit we can purpose to do good, and cause our bodies to follow. Life is disastrous the other way around. If the body rules, we’ll be inconsistent, and unfaithful. We’ll stay down. Defeated. The most effective use of the body is its obedience to the spirit, and a mind alive to truth.

I don’t know your mood, or your name, but as long as you’re alive, you have a chance. Things may not be easy, but hope lives. Good is possible. Easy is just a road to certain failure. Don’t chase it. Maybe you are tired, and you need a break. Rest, but don’t stay down. The same grandmother who said, “Get up…” and “Hard work won’t kill ya” also knew the importance of “sittin down” to rest and refresh. Work made rest necessary, and meaningful. Cherished moments.

Moody died at 97 years old.  She was right. It wasn’t due to hard work. She had a full life, and without the benefit of a formal education she left a mighty legacy.  She was a small woman, about 5’4 on tiptoes. But she was honorable and faithful, with a character that gave her the presence of a giant.  She was a fierce ally, and a truth teller to others, but most importantly to herself. Get up Moody! Was just one of many ways she did so. For the record her real name was Sarah Elizabeth Knowles. She lived the life of unbridled humility. She battled this world with uncommon kindness, and exceptional grace. It is my great honor to be the granddaughter of a warrior. 

  

Bold Enough

I suppose that after you written nearly a 15,000 word blog you are entitled to a month or two off. And so, I took a break. I didn't intend to. I intended to follow my post Unrest with one called "Black Enough." It would defend and detail all the reasons why I was qualified to speak so candidly on race. It would also serve to answer those who would seek to discredit me because I told the uncomfortable truth regarding the topic. I've decided against that at this time.

I realize that the reason I am qualified to speak on race has less to do with what I've suffered related to skin color, but on what I have endured related to the condition of my heart. I'm "black enough" to speak on racial issues because I once walked in total darkness in all areas of life. I've experienced that humans are selfishly motivated. Unless divinely influenced, man will never do right by man, and I am no exception.

It was the truth of God alone that changed me. It continues to this day. It is the reason I now seek to give the homeless new clothes, not just my old ones. It's the reason I give my family the choice cut of meat, and not save it for my plate. It's the reason I buy the thing that I damage at the store, and not have someone else eat the cost. It is the reason I return the item to the rack, or the cart to its place.  This list can go on, and though these are seemingly little things, they all esteem others greater than they esteem self. It is a life altering shift. I know who I was before. I'm different now. There is some new law written on my heart. Its primary function seems to be to inspire me to love and to do good works.

I'm aware that some will be turned off by the talk of Jesus. I truly never wanted to sound "too christiany." I'm not attempting to be pious, simply honest. I have struggled with just about every wrong thing I can think of. Even the "small things," whether it's lying, envy, gossiping, and on, none of those things promote the wellbeing or justice of another human. Only the love of God does that. I refuse to undermine the sacrifice and grace of Jesus by pretending that I could be enough.  It's futile to even entertain the idea. Justice and peace belongs to the Lord. Those who follow Him, find it.

And so as the unrest continues in the streets, and people urge me to fight against "social injustice," I choose to fight for something more. Love. I redirect my heart and focus towards the only God who gives joy in the midst of chaos. I follow the one who healed the outcasts. Fought for women's rights before the world knew it was the right thing to do. He associated with the racially marginalized, befriended and assisted the poor, weak an lowly. He chose inequality, and gave His life so that all may be free. His passion was not merely for "social justice," but spiritual justice. Spiritual justice is the true healer. It brings genuine power, and equality to all. His life forever taught us that man is more than his social assignment. Unless you address his heart, he will always descend into unjust behaviors and conditions. Social, and otherwise.

I find my comfort in Christ, not in my culture or my color. The issue isn't whether I'm "black enough" to speak on the one topic assigned to me by the world, but whether in freedom, I'm bold enough to speak the truth of God on any topic, to any power in this world. My credentials are greater than skin tone, or earthly affiliations. Simply put; I'm sinful enough to know, and speak on the transforming power of God's love. May He give me the strength to never shut up about it.

Peace

Greetings from my office- the back seat of our Honda Accord, parked securely behind closed garage doors. It's a place where I can find the peace, and quiet I crave. But even now if I strain my ears and listen intently, I can hear the muffled conversation happening in my kitchen, just beyond these walls. This is the audible evidence that my chosen sanctuary isn't exactly failproof. Still, it is the better of my options in the hunt for tranquility.

It made me wonder about you. Where are you finding peace these days? I know very well peace isn't a location. It is a person. Jesus. Here in my car, with the remains of a little Debbie's Raisin Cake scattered conspicuously across my sweatshirt, He is my peace. There in my house with a little one who believes that Saturday TV binges are an American child's first amendment right, He is my peace. It doesn't matter that her sister and dad are in the adjacent room working on a critical, legal document in volumes that competes with the tv. It doesn't matter that I have 3 writing deadlines, dishes and laundry piled high, a workout not done, and a mind not to do it, He is my peace. It doesn’t matter that COVID-19 has brought the greatest country in the world to its knees, and its economy- the trust of nations- to the brink of ruins, He is my peace. My soul is well. Better than well. Untouchable.

What matters more is, He can be your peace too. He is not exclusive to me. He is for you, or anyone willing to try Him. Perhaps you have a peace that gets you by. Is it enough? Can you trust it? I have found no greater sanctuary than Jesus. He is always there. If today you are struggling to find peace, now is a great time to seek and find it in Him. Pray earnestly that He would reveal Himself to you. And if you are looking for something to read, His book is great. It is enlightening, entertaining, and filled with words and messages of peace and hope. So unlike my garage. I appreciate this space of solitude, but I just thought I’d share with you where I find my true source of peace. Jesus. Nothing, and no-one else compares.

Secrets

Some stories want to be told. They come pouring out effortlessly, and sometimes unexpectedly. Then there are others that as one friend told me, "you take to the grave."
I've been thinking about that second class of secrets, the "take it to the gravers." I'm not sure I agree. I'm no advocate of broadcasting one's business, but perhaps there is one person, or maybe a few people with whom you could entrust your entire story. How tragic to leave this planet and no one knew you. I mean really knew you.

I think of people who are diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Could you imagine keeping secrets and then not being able to control when they are told? Your disease decided it. Or what if you lost the ability to recall some memories again? I suppose it could be relative to the memory. Most wouldn't care about losing a terrible one. Those are the ones we want to forget. But even horrific memories have played a role in the shaping of who we are, and can transform those around us. Imagine if the Jews who suffered at the hands of Hitler never shared their stories. What if they chose to protect themselves from the pain and shame of those recollections? What if they chose to be viewed as strong rather than vulnerable or victims of the Nazis? What if Jesus suffered, but never shared the extent of His suffering? God in the hands of man. Talk about a story of humility. We don't naturally enjoy revealing the hardships and humiliating moments of our lives.  Shared or not, these stories are as much a part of the shaping of who we are as anything else. My point is, suffering though by definition painful, isn't powerless or pointless. Victimization reveals vulnerability, but it doesn't negate hope or cancel victory. Often it produces it. Triumph has its roots in tragedy, so your narrative, no matter where it falls on the spectrum of good and bad has value. Even if not for you, the telling of your story might prevent a thousand disasters in the lives of those around you.

 I realize how scary this must sound. Weirder still, is that it is coming from me. Trust does not come easily to me. It is rather elusive actually. I have to know you, prove that you listen, and are loyal. It's about a two-decade process. Even then, that doesn't guarantee that I'll lay it all out for you, only that you'd be in the running if I ever decided to.  Still, I can't help but wonder who is served by keeping anything a secret? It is the "why" behind the action that gives me pause and has me questioning Why do we keep secrets? Protection seems the obvious answer, but is it really protection? What and who are we guarding against? And what do we keep out, by keeping our guards so high? Perhaps we keep out judgment, and persecution as a result. But consider that we also keep out healing, health, and growth. Who is really served by protecting a secret? Further, there is some indication that the desire to self-protect might be driven by a weakness. That, I find unacceptable. Let's eliminate that. Actions from fear and weakness are no way to live.

I understand that there are things you could only share with a select few. There may even be things that you can only share with one person. The point isn't that we walk around spewing our story like a Grimm's fairy tale, but that we share it. All of it. The main reason is freedom. Whatever is hidden has power over you. You are a servant to it.  It is the silent overseer deciding how you could act. Who you could be around. How much you can truly be loved. And isn't that the whole reason people hide secrets anyway? They want to protect the public view of themselves, an retain whatever value can be gained from that view. Love. Fear. Idolization. Respect. We have an internal evaluator ever asking, "How much would I be loved and accepted if these things are known of me?" How would people view me if they knew...?"
Mostly we hide what we are or have done because we don't want others to know the "real us." It is too risky. It could be a potential impediment to them loving us. Respecting us. But the desire to hold onto social approval is a mighty snare, built on the fear of man. It is a weird sort of prison, one built by the hands of the captive to protect him from the thing he actually wants. Meaning we want love, so we don't disclose out of fear of rejection or a denial of love. But because we don't disclose, the attention and affections we receive are not real. They are not based on truth. They are for the person we pretend to be. They are not based on who we are, but who we are not, who we purport to be. We are then forced to stay in that prison, because we have built an image on falsehood. Even under the best of circumstances when we play the part well, when everyone believes the lie of the image we present, there is no real peace in the love and respect garnered there. Instead there is conflict because we know the truth. Still, we must maintain the image to maintain the acceptance. This is the broad ramifications of secrets. They change you. They imprison you. They make you become something you are not to protect the thing that you actually are, have done, or want.

Many of us aren't completely fake. We just have a few things we'd like to keep to ourselves. I think that's the problem. That thing is "keeping us to ourselves." It hinders us from being a light to another. From being seen. It keeps us closed off. Greater still it hinders us from the free flow of the divine work in us. Primarily because the power of someone's life relates heavily to what they have been able to overcome, learn from, and celebrate as a result of their journey. It is the story of what God has brought them through, is bringing them through, and allowing them to keep surviving. Maturity, and growth is revealed in the things we have been able to honestly overcome.  It is also the thing that is most attractive about us. Do you think anyone wants to hear about overcoming alcoholism from a person who has never had a drink? No. We want that story from the horse's mouth. Suffered abuse? Guess who you will be more likely to reach, or relate to? An abuse victim. Point is, often the things we are trying to hide or protect in us or about us, is the potential light in us. It will be the thing that draws others to us, to God, to freedom. Don't hide it under a bushel or a of basket of fear.

The "what" in our story is important, because it highlights the "who." What we overcame shines a light on "how" we did so. Specifically, "who" helped us. To downplay the "what" in our story is to undercut  the "who" and the power of "how" they helped us.

Earlier I mentioned weakness as a reason we don't share. I don't mean to sound cruel, but often it is. We are too easily shaped by the opinions and applause of others. If our junk risks those most valued things then we clam up. We so esteem the thoughts of others, that we treasure their opinions above wholeness. Above God's glory. It is a very sad and apologetic sort of life. The careful covering of secrets is a constant reminder of not being worthy enough, a continuous apology for, and an acknowledgement of not being up to some perceived level. It also screams unforgiveness. It is unforgiveness of someone or of ourselves, because when you are free of a thing, you don't need to guard it or treat it with such high regard. You are free to share it and shout it from rooftops. You overcame it. It doesn't have any control over you. You control it. It is a thing of your past, something that you've moved beyond, like 80's perm and big hair. You don't tip toe around it. You talk about it. You are bold with the truth, and the "secret" becomes a strength.  It does your bidding. Not the other way around.

Still, the biggest drawback to secrets is living a lie. You end up losing out on purpose because of them. It is an impossibility and a fruitless effort to spend your life attempting to satisfy everyone else's expectations. The end result is you'll live below what you could have been.  Is that thing worth it? What are you hiding? Who are you protecting? Why?  Consider how it's controlling you? Let the light in. Take a risk. Expose the darkness to someone you trust. Allow real love to enter and give the light of your story a chance to shine. Then, and only then can you be free. Truth alone liberates the soul.

Accused an Punished For Me

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2wB_LPcD34

I was a voice in that crowd.
My actions screamed consent.
Loud. Bold. I was proud.
Calling back in time,
Crucify Him! Crucify Him! CRUCIFY HIM!

I chose Barabbas that day.
Rebellion no stranger to me.
Defiant. Brazen. Pride exalted.
I yelled approval for evil above the masses,
I choose sin! I choose sin. I CHOOSE SIN!

He was silent that day for me.
The Word, His words births galaxies,
Wrecks enemies.
Defending Himself would render me guilty.
Love was silent that day for me.
His silence was for me.
His silence set me free.

He was accused and punished for me
Lies aimed at the flawless.
Hatred in my heart.
I wielded the whip of brutality
With precision and skill
A thirst for pain. A hunger to kill.

My guilt was the force behind the nails.
His blood on my hands.
Ungrateful. Violent. Dishonest.
I chose acceptance over righteousness.
I offered Him no comfort in His suffering.
Innocence was rejected by me.
Insulted by me. I denied by me. Betrayed by me.

I was dead.
And in my condemned state
Satan held my proxy.
I jeered. I mocked.
I belittled love in the process of saving my life!

Still, He remained faithful to His goodness.
He laid aside purity, nobility and ability.
Endured the cross. Disregarded shame.
Embodied humility.
Eyes fixed on joy to come.
The author and finisher of faith.
Delivered the hope of glory.

He gave justice all it demanded.
His punishment the total price of my innocence.
Mercy and grace flowed from the veins of the blameless.
His blood is life! The rescue of my soul.
I was blind. I was His enemy
He pardoned my treachery. My ignorance. My hypocrisy
Absolved by the divine
Made new by the immaculate. A matchless lamb.
The ultimate servant. An unconquerable king.

It's not by works that I have done.
I am the best of the Pharisees
Supposing if Jesus were here today,
I'd offer dissent to injustice.
I'd be a voice for Him.

He is here today. Here now.
How often I fail to speak. To stand.
Instead, seizing every opportunity to advance my temporal kingdom,
Except the gift provides the courage, and the Spirit provides wisdom-
I fail disastrously. Grievously. Thoroughly.
Always!

I stood convicted in a sea of souls.
God stepped in front for me.
I am the fruit of the grisly cross.
He bore the guilt. I was lost.
Time and distance made my deeds no less
Sinners and soldiers are the same.
My actions gave evil its cause,
His actions gave me His name.
He became that vile thing I was proven to be.
I was the sin. Now I am free.
He was accused and punished for me.

Hot dog or Hot dog sandwich?

My husband is Mr. easy. He's generally accepting and rarely critical. However I can earn his immediate rebuke with three words, "hot dog Sandwich." He insist that a "hot dog" is not a sandwich and persistence in calling it one does not actually make it so. I fundamentally disagree. Anything, between two things is by definition, a SANDWICH!!! Enter our household, and the great debate.

To settle this matter, I did what folks of our era do, I took it to Google. Imagine my shock to find that this topic has been discussed for quite sometime. So intense are the opinions, that the National Hot Dog and Sausage Counsel was asked to officially rule on the matter. Yes, there is such a thing. I'll save you the search. My husband is clearly running that counsel, because they got it wrong. They said it's a hot dog. Thankfully, my guy isn't aware of the official ruling, nor have I shared it with him. I'm rather fond of peace, and I prefer my environment gloat free.

Settle this for us. What say ye? A "hot dog," or a "hot dog sandwich?" Hint: correct answer written in bold.