Everyday It’s a Getting Closer

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Discouragement has been trying to sneak into my heart lately. I bar the doors and it makes faces at me through the windows. I shut the curtains and it sticks out its tongue on the news reports. I flip through Netflix and see it dressed up as reason or compassion or as humour – in black of course. I shut the TV off and discouragement pops up on my phone. Even in-person conversations take a sudden tilt toward you-think-that’s-bad.

Here’s the thing. You can’t escape discouragement when you’ve allowed it to have a camping spot in your head.

We had a problem with mice in the house once. While we were on vacation they got into the pantry. Screaming may have been involved when I opened the doors. I set traps, cleaned up and stored everything in plastic bins after that, but they would still show up. (More screaming.) We called for help.

The exterminator searched all around and found we had a spilled bag of grass seed in the garden shed near the back door.

“There’s your problem,” he said. “They eat in your garden restaurant then come into the house to keep warm. They only need an opening as big as their nose to squeeze through. Get rid of what they are feeding on and they will go away.”

It was one of those moments when I heard God speaking with the accent of a pest control expert.

Get rid of what they are feeding on and they will go away.

I said this to someone else yesterday and heard God’s voice in my own.

Get rid of what discouragement is feeding on and it will go away.

What’s it feeding on? Words that don’t include His perspective. I call them Helena Handbasket speeches. Sometimes I listen to them and sometimes I make them myself.

“But the situation looks dire, Lord.”

“Come up here and see the big picture,” He says.

“How? I mean really. HOW?”

This morning I woke from a dream about  friends who were were shutting down a coffee shop kind of place. Business was too slow. A handicapped person came in looking for someone to talk to, then a shy older woman, then a child who offered to share her candy with the lady. All the while the shop was being readied for closure with chairs stacked on tables being pushed against the wall.

They made one more pot of free coffee for the people who had wandered in. While they set a couple of chairs back at a table more people showed up. They needed more tables and opened another section. More and more people were suddenly there. The thing they all seemed to have in common was loneliness and feeling like they didn’t belong anywhere and were out of place in time. Some even wore clothes from earlier decades.

The child sharing her candy had only meant to give it to one person, but it was passed around in a bowl and like the fish and barley loaves the disciples saw multiply as they passed baskets around, the candy in the dollar store crystal dish never ran out.

I woke up with a song in my head that I never paid much attention to before. I didn’t know more words than I needed to google it. A Buddy Holly song? Seriously?

 

“Why this one, Lord?”

“You asked for my perspective.”

These Helena Handbasket voices that make dire predictions? Well yes, there is a right and left perspective, neither of which can offer solutions, but there is also an up and down axis. And that is a game changer.

At one point in the dream a man who had been a addict ran out into the street from the now busy cafe and said, “People say change is not possible. I tell you it is! I am free and more people are being set free every day!”

Every. Day.

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Breaking Away

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Look who I found hiding out in Idaho? Well, everyone needs a break, I suppose.

Today, with the news still full of stories about the consequences of the UK’s vote to break away from the E.U., is the day I congratulate my friends to the south on their celebration of breaking away from our common parent country.

Today I am also sorting through stuff in my basement and I’ve come across a file of genealogy research – the family history of breaking away. It seems my grandmother’s great-grandparents broke away from the Americans.

Every once in a while it’s a good idea to ask, “How did we get here?” It’s all quite bizarre really.

Warning. I’m going to overgeneralize, but I’m talking about roots and patterns in the big picture. Usually, the way something is established is the way it is maintained.

I discovered, quite by accident, that my father’s grandmother was not First Nations as we supposed. Her surname was Towne and the Towne family line in America is so well researched the genealogy sites don’t bother to charge for the information. I could follow a straight line from Andrew to Andrew Elijah to Andrew to Stephen to Stephen to Jacob to Jacob to William Towne and his wife, Joanna Blessing, who were part of the new Puritan colony in Massachusetts. Three of their daughters were tried as witches in Salem. Two were hung.

This shocked me! I was raised in an environment that was anti-American. I had no idea I had American roots, let alone connections to the Mayflower Puritans and the Salem witch trials! Our source of Canadian identity was the statement “We are not Americans!”

Then I followed the trail and realized that sometime between the American Revolution and the War of 1812 my ancestors broke away from this new independent country and moved to Renfrew county in Ontario where the United Empire Loyalists settled. Violence and persecution chased them.

When my great-grandmother was a child her mother died. Her father was away working as a logger and when he returned he found the children alone in the cabin having buried their mother themselves. Since he couldn’t care for them he split the children up amongst distant relatives. One of his daughters was sent to live with a family in New York. Apparently she was treated cruelly. She was not permitted to go to school and slept in the barn. At the age of thirteen she ran away and headed north looking for her father.

After living on her own in the bush all summer Algonkin people found her. They took her in and raised her, teaching her the skills of living off the land. Later she married a Scottish hunter/trapper and raised her own family thirty miles from the nearest road. She had skills. Dad says at an old age she made him moccasins and was still an incredible sharp shooter. Her N.Y. experience added (unfairly) to the family lore about the nature of Americans. How easy it is to pass on the burden of our pain to our children.

At the same time I learned the reason we couldn’t trace one family line past a certain grandfather was that there was no record of his father. An astute cousin did notice, however that his mother and maternal grandfather had the same surname. It was not uncommon for illegitimate sons of wealthy Englishmen to be given a tract of land in Canada as their hidden inheritance.

Now I don’t believe in generational curses. That’s Old Covenant stuff. Jesus sets us free from the law of sin and death, but I do see patterns of temptation that follow family lines – especially when unforgiveness is passed on. I noticed this when studying church history as well. It is amazing how often a group that breaks away in protest manifests problems in the same area that caused them to break away within two or three generations. When we insist that “we are NOT them” we set ourselves up to become them.

My husband was invited to a Southern Baptist Independence Day/Sunday school picnic while he was working in Phoenix one summer. He told me about someone getting up and reciting the entire Declaration of Independence.

“I had no idea this thing goes on and on about why they hated the British so much and especially the king. I thought it was about their vision for their country. No. It’s mostly about protesting their treatment by the British government. It’s rather bitter.”

We have many friends in Canada who were either born in the USA or who had a parent born there who recently found themselves in deep trouble with the IRS. Apparently they were supposed to have filed tax returns in the States even though some of them had never lived or worked there.  The tax collectors demanded that foreign banks turn over private information on these folk. It cost some shop owners thousands in accountant fees to prove they owed nothing. When they were advised to contact their congressman about the threat of heavy fines (and other heavy-handed consequences the tax people are known for) they protested, “We don’t have a congressman! We don’t live there anymore. This is taxation without representation!” Oh, the irony.

When my ancestors broke away from religious tyranny they had no intention of becoming tyrants themselves, and yet in less than one generation a government backed by crazy fear-based religion hung innocent people accused of witchcraft.

When the United Empire Loyalist forefathers broke away because they opposed solving disputes with violence they ended up being part of the crew that burned down parts of Washington in the war of 1812.

Both countries, which in the 19th century were run by descendants of landless non-eldest sons and bastard sons and peasants craving property, have a history of taking for themselves land legitimately belonging to First Nations people. Sometimes they used violence, and more often, in Canada, fraud, legal loop holes and long delays. They even deliberately plied with whiskey, introduced disease, and destroyed the family unit by forcing children into residential schools.

Yesterday I read a report that ordinary people can’t afford to live in cities like Vancouver anymore because the best land is being bought up by foreigners who are even craftier than they were. Oh, the irony.

Both countries are now populated, for the most part, by the children of refugees and immigrants who fled the hopelessness of rigid class structure and rule by the elite. Now descendants of these very people have become the new oligarchy, the ones who hold the wealth and power and who decide who will be in charge of the government, the courts – and the tax office. Oh, the irony.

How do we break the pattern? By recognizing it, confessing to sin we have accepted as a normal way of doing business, by offering repentance (metanoia -change) on behalf of our forefathers and choosing to think differently. Where possible we need to issue apologies and make restitution.

The same goes for denominations formed as a result of protest, rebellion, sneakiness and lack of honour for those who have given us our roots. If you leave a legalistic church without reconciling differences don’t be surprised if your children or grandchildren have problems with rules -either having too many or too few. If you leave because a church is wealthy and doesn’t care for the poor your grandchildren could find themselves in a mega-church with catered prayer meetings at $25 dollars a pop, or becoming professional beggars looking for more ways to fund raise..

Just watch. I’m not making this up.

I’ve done this before, but I want to make it public again today. I forgive the British government for depriving my ancestors of the right of freedom of religion and recognition as sons. I forgive the American government for acting violently toward my ancestors. I forgive the family that abused my great-grandmother. I forgive the church I was raised in for not understanding the needs of the poor among them. I want to break the pattern of both distrust and complacency that I have accepted as normal in relationships with authority of all kinds.

Especially today, I want to apologize to Americans for decades of dinner discussions that expressed fear and distrust and offered more criticism than prayer. I have dedicated myself to praying for you for the past few years and I will continue to pray

GOD BLESS AMERICA!

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Nothing is Too Hard for You

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Ah, Lord God!

It is you who have made the heavens

and the earth by your great power

and by your outstretched arm!

Nothing is too hard for you.

(Jeremiah 32:17 ESV)

Great Shall Be the Peace

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All your children shall be taught by the Lord,
and great shall be the peace of your children.

In righteousness you shall be established;
you shall be far from oppression, for you shall not fear;
and from terror, for it shall not come near you.

(Isaiah 54:13, 14 ESV)

Blessing

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I was young and now I am old,
yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken
or their children begging bread.

They are always generous and lend freely;
their children will be a blessing.

(Psalm 37:25, 26 NIV)

The Couch

The secret of the Lord is for those who fear Him, and He will make them know His covenant. (NASB)

“Did you know the root word in Hebrew for secret can mean a couch?” the songwriter asked as she rummaged through her file looking for the draft of her new song.
Blogging at Ishshah’s Story this week.

Charis Psallo's avatarIshshah's Story

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“The greatest freedom is having nothing to prove.” – R.T. Kendall

When I look at the big comfy couch and overstuffed armchair here in my living room, I think of open-hearted conversations with friends. I think of the times people have trusted me with their stories as we sat on sofas covered in white brocade, brown leather, floral print (like this one at Karen’s cottage) or, in student days, something that looked even worse than the army blanket covering it.

Many times friends gave me the chance to be unguarded as I offered them the same privilege. We laughed, cried, challenged and encouraged each other. I welcome unadorned truth from friends close enough to genuinely care and who can extend me the same grace they have received from the Lord. Other than the entryway, where the deepest conversations seem to be accompanied by one hand on the door knob, the…

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Liberation

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Eternal One: Hard to believe, but it shall be so.
The captives will be taken from the hand of the mighty,
And the spoil of war will be rescued from the tyrant.
I will liberate them from their captors and contend with your enemies.

I will save your children.

(Isaiah 49:25 The Voice)

Give Me Understanding

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I know now, only one summer later, why this outdoor bench was on sale. I need to scrape it down and re-paint it already.

At first it fit the landscape plan perfectly. Now? I really need to paint it.

Sometimes the Lord gives us places to sit and enjoy the scenery on this spiritual journey and they are good places to settle – for a while. Sometimes we discover, when the paint chips off, that we need to get up and pursue a closer relationship with God, a better understanding, a sturdier orthodoxy and more effective orthopraxy that can handle new situations we encounter.

I overheard this discussion between sisters, one three-years old and the other seven-years old.

“I came out of Mommy’s tummy!”
“No. You came out of her uterus.”
“Tummy!”
“A stomach is for digesting food. You couldn’t have been in her tummy or you would have come out like poop.”
“I am not poop!”
“That’s because you grew in her uterus not her tummy!”
“Mommy said! I was in her tummy and you were in her tummy too!”
“Uterus. Or sometimes they call it a womb, but it’s not a tummy.”
“Mommy! Daisy is lying!”

I’ve seen a lot of discussions between Christian adults take a similar turn lately. When we are learning the basics of life the knowledge that babies come from mommies’ tummies is profound enough and a good place to settle. There is grace for that level of understanding when we love and respect each other. There is also grace for people who have settled on the next bench, and the next, however temporary those positions may be as they continue to journey.

You should have seen the expression on my grandson’s face after his dad told him how babies got in there. “Oh Grammie, it’s nasty! Just nasty! You wouldn’t believe it!”

Some information is too heavy for toddlers. It’s hard enough to hear when you are school aged – or even grandmother-aged. But you can’t avoid that knowledge forever, and it’s best you hear it from parents who are vested in your long-term well-being.

Simple explanations are good enough for babes in faith. Some people are happy to settle there indefinitely and will insist you agree with them. The explanations they are contented with are not untrue (tummy can be a pretty general term), but there is more to be learned in time. When the Lord teaches me something new I am sometimes shocked. I feel unsettled, unsure. I don’t have a grid for it. There is a period of letting go of old incomplete concepts to make room for things I just don’t get yet. For a person who has had trust issues and accepts change slowly this can be a challenge. What do you mean it’s a little more complicated than what I thought?

As the Lord is giving me a more in-depth picture of his holiness and the utter horror and ugliness of sin and how it leads to death, he is also giving me an increasingly overwhelming picture of his majesty, grace and a love I cannot comprehend. It’s a shocking paradox that only makes sense when viewed from where he sits. This requires some adjustment to my thinking. It’s too massive a concept to grasp all at once.

You go before me and follow me.
You place your hand of blessing on my head.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too great for me to understand!
(Psalm 139:5,6 NLT)

I want to understand more. I need much better insight. How can God continue to love people who reject him and hurt each other? How can I do that when I’m disgusted by my own attitude sometimes, let alone the attitude of people who hate me for not agreeing with them? How do I love? What IS love, anyway?

This morning I pray with the cry of the Psalmist:

Let my cry come before you, O Lord;
give me understanding according to your word!
Let my plea come before you;
deliver me according to your word.

and

The unfolding of your words gives light;
it imparts understanding to the simple.
I open my mouth and pant,
because I long for your commandments.
Turn to me and be gracious to me,
as is your way with those who love your name.
(Psalm 119: 169, 170, 130  – 132 ESV)

I don’t understand, but You do, Lord. I trust You.

 

Maybe I should use a hardier paint on the bench this time.  Boat paint?

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