Breaking Away

statue of liberty idaho IMG_2240

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







Anger as a Gift of Grace


Sometimes, like storm clouds that roll in in the middle of a perfectly lovely day, my anger seems to come out of nowhere and crashes and booms in the most embarrassing way. I don’t want to feel it!

Yesterday’s blog on angry critical words as verbal assault weapons stirred up discouraging feelings for some people who wrote to me privately. I realize we need to talk about the other part about the words that flow out of our heart without piling on more “shoulds” What do we do with feelings of anger?

I get really mad at myself when I lose my temper. I’ve heard it said that depression is anger turned inward and perhaps that is true, but you don’t want to be in the line of fire when it’s turned outward. What do we do with anger when it boils over and spoils our carefully constructed version of ourselves? What do we do with feelings that fuel not-nice verbal assaults aimed either at ourselves or at others?

The Bible tells us, “In your anger do not sin.


For a long time I didn’t realize that God gave us a sense of anger or righteous indignation or personal miffification (my word) for a good reason. Anger is like the indicator light on the dashboard of a car that lets you know there is a problem with the engine. When my dad taught me to drive he emphasized the necessity of paying attention to the dashboard information. Don’t let the RPMs get too high and never, never ignore the low oil warning. Stop and deal with it right away.

Anger can be a gift of grace. Anger allows us to admit there is a problem. Who we blame for the problem is the problem.

Anger is a secondary emotion. It’s like a warning light that lets us know something is wrong inside somewhere. Yes, there are false alarms and overly sensitive alarms sometimes. No one is thrilled to see the warning light suddenly glowing red. One time it cost me $87 to find out that I had only turned the gas cap one click instead of three after I followed my dad’s advice and drove directly to a mechanic’s shop when the engine light turned on. (That triggered my personal anger indicator light.) It’s tempting to ignore warnings after such events, but ignoring them can lead to nasty or expensive consequences later.

I’m suffering from ignoring a warning I was given a few weeks ago. It was just a toe. My doctor said I needed to have minor surgery to deal with an over zealous toenail that turned on me. When he mentioned recovery time I thought about my busy schedule and procrastinated. Last week I ended up having to get antibiotics to deal with  painful infection. My toe (little thing that it is) screamed at me like a street full of car alarms set off by an rebellious teenager at 3 a.m..  Yesterday, my adorable three-year old granddaughter was asserting her newly discovered independence over whether or not she needed to wear a hoodie (which she calls a “heady”). In the  process she expressed her opinion with a vehement stomp. Unfortunately my toe was under her stomp.

Now I love this child dearly but had it not been for the grace of the Lord in teaching me a bit of self-control by this point in my life I could have let loose some pithy words that carry emotional weight.

When we lose it and our tempers over-ride the mouth gate control, or when other people unload their verbal semi-automatic assault weapons on us, it is often because issues were not dealt with while they were still minor. Sometimes minor offences fester like a sore toe we have ignored for too long. Woe betide the one who brushes against a sensitive spot.

Some of the things we ignore are minor wounds that occur when people make demands that require us to give more than we think we can afford. This can feel like someone is stealing our time, attention, money, dignity – all sorts of things. One of the hardest I find to deal with is the implication, “You are a Christian. You are required to love and forgive so I expect you to forgive me immediately no matter what I do.”

Gayle Erwin talks about the problem of relating to people who say, “So you want to be a servant. Well, I’ve always wanted one of those.” There is a difference between being a servant of God and a servant of a person who wants you to indulge their selfishness. Since when does love mean enabling poor choices?

Boundaries discussed and established early in a relationship can help avoid misunderstandings later. Love must be voluntary in order to be love. If I lay down my own needs to meet yours it must be because I choose to, and not because you have removed my options. The joy of giving is stolen when it is coerced.

Sometimes ultra-sensitive unhealed wounds caused by painful past events are protected by anger. (I wrote about that here.) Prickly people use anger to keep anyone from getting too close. Right now I am very wary of anyone who comes too close to my toe. This has nothing to do with you but if it looks like you might drop that armload of firewood I might yell at you to back off.

There are many triggers for anger – fear of lack, fear of being out of control, fear of being left out or unloved, fear of being deceived or taken advantage of. (There are also physiological conditions that produce feelings of irritation and anger.) I’m not going to join the accuser of the brethren here. He has enough helpers on the internet. But sometimes the accuser is owned himself when God allows satan’s nastiness to point out an area that is not working for us. Sometimes unpleasant feelings of being overwhelmed by anger, like feelings of pain,  can be the thing that points to something God intends to heal next. If we seek the Lord to understand the reason behind our upsetting reaction he will be there waiting.

Yes. I need healing -inside and out. But who doesn’t in some way? The humble person who is aware of their weaknesses as well as their strengths, who knows their need for grace, who has known what it is to be forgiven, is in a place to offer that same grace when they see someone else boil over. They get it.

I’m making an appointment with my doctor to address the problem with my toe when I get back home – but I’m also praying for divine intervention in seeking healing not only for my toe, but for other little wounds of the heart I have ignored for too long.

If you find yourself in a place where you realize you need healing for something, but are not sure what, don’t be afraid to ask God. He loves you dearly and he is relentlessly kind.




Freedom Training


As the reflections of our pride upon our defects are bitter, disheartening, and vexatious, so the return of the soul towards God is peaceful and sustained by confidence. You will find by experience how much more your progress will be aided by this simple, peaceful turning towards God, than by all your chagrin and spite at the faults that exist in you.
– Francois Fenelon

A few years ago, when he was a wee lad, a child I know and love was becoming accustomed to the concept of both freedom and taking increasing responsibility for his choices. I watched him as he encountered one of the first steps to maturity: potty training.

Spiderman underwear was fun to wear and all, but sometimes the burden of getting up and walking away from the sandbox or the Lego blocks when he was in the creative zone was too heavy. Sometimes you don’t know what your limits are until you’ve passed them. And he passed them.

We noticed (eventually) that in moments like these the little guy disappeared. We went looking for him. His daddy called and called but he made no response. Finally, following his nose, his father found him hiding, sometimes in the closet, sometimes behind the furniture, sometimes behind the drapes.

You see, part of the problem was that he had an older sibling, a sibling who taunted him with, “You’re in trouble now! Wait until Daddy gets home! You’re in for it.”

Daddy was perhaps disappointed, but not angry. He understood the weakness of little boys. He did not expect perfection in the learning stages. He wanted his son to succeed and he loved this little boy with a love so big he would have laid down his life for him. Poopy pants was not a deal breaker.

I realized one day that this is often our reaction when we fail to live consistently with changes we want to make in our lives. Like the wee lad we run and hide in shame from the only One who is able to clean us up and set us back on our feet in a refreshed state. Sometimes we sit alone in the closet in poopy pants for days, or even years,  avoiding the very One who offers us mercy and forgiveness. Our heavenly Father loves us so much. He is not surprised by our weaknesses but wants to help us gain freedom from stinky habits by showing us a better way.

Lately I’ve been aware of older sibling-type people who get out their social media megaphones and preach the bad news of “Wait until Daddy gets home! You’re in for it now!” For some reason they are surprised when people don’t run in the direction they suggest. Instead of encouragement older brother-types tend to heap on larger and larger piles of shame that keep those who cannot keep up to standards hiding in dark places.

Jesus Christ says, “Come to me if you are weak. Come to me if you find the burdens placed upon you too heavy. Come to me and I will give you rest and peace in your lonely souls because I am meek and lowly of heart.  I am willing to get down to your level and put my arms around you and love you just as you are, poopy pants and all. Let me clean you up. There is so much more I want to show you! Let’s do this together.”

It’s called grace. Amazing grace.


The Return

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Then he came to his senses and cried aloud, ‘Why, dozens of my father’s hired men have got more food than they can eat and here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go back to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have done wrong in the sight of Heaven and in your eyes. I don’t deserve to be called your son any more. Please take me on as one of your hired men.”’

So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still some distance off, his father saw him and his heart went out to him, and he ran and fell on his neck and kissed him.

– Jesus, from his story of The Father’s Prodigious Love.

Like a Night Watchman Waiting

Columbia Lake dawn ch MG_4629


A song I haven’t heard for a long time was playing in my dreams last night. I’ve learned to pay attention to songs that wake me in the night.

My Soul Waits, by Bill Batstone, is based on Psalm 130.

I call to you from out of the deep, “Oh Lord, most high!”
Aware of my sin and the distance I keep from the light, Oh Lord.

But there is forgiveness with Thee,
and in wonder I fall on my knees.
My soul waits for the Lord in the hope of his promise,
in the hope of his promise deliverance will come.
My soul waits for the Lord through the night ’til the morning,
like a night watchman waiting for the coming of the dawn.

Look to the Lord all you people in need, for he is kind.
He will break the chains of your soul’s slavery for all time.

There is forgiveness with Thee and in wonder I fall on my knees.
My souls waits for the Lord in the hope of his promise…
like a night watchman waiting for the coming of the dawn,
like a night watchman waiting for the coming of the dawn.


My grandfather was a night watchman. For twenty five years he worked while the rest of us slept. I didn’t realize, until he developed dementia and relived in his own house those lonely dark nights of climbing miles and miles of stairs, how much he longed for daylight. He was man of small stature armed only with a huge flashlight. More than once he encountered thieves who came in the night to take what was not theirs. More than once he scared them off with his light and the authority his uniform communicated. A couple of times he called the alarm when his life was in danger. At least once his huge flashlight became a physical weapon of defense.

I didn’t realize until the day he retired and took off his uniform and boots for the last time how much he longed for the dawn. He left a big X on each calendar day leading up to the promise of a pension. Guarding the factory while others slept, and sleeping while others played left him out of sync with the rest of the world. It took a toll, but he was faithful to his employers all those years.

After his retirement Grandpa never missed a sunrise. He rose early to wait for it. He soaked in the light of the day working in his garden as much as possible.

Spiritual watchmen pray during the night watches. Sometimes they are aware of dangers  that others know nothing about as the Lord calls them to intercede. Even in the darkness they learn to walk in the light of God’s love. They are prayer warriors and use their authority as beloved sons and daughters of God to turn back meddlesome threats. They do not fight with the weapons of the world but with divine weapons designed to bring light and  pull down strongholds of deception. Sometimes they sound the alarm and call for backup when greater threats appear. It can be a lonely solitary calling, but they are the first ones to see the dawn coming.

And the dawn is coming.

Shake It Off

wind hair child ch bw

Can we talk?

There are times on this road when we run into ambushes and a hail of arrows comes out of nowhere. Accusations. Misunderstanding. Jealousy. Lies. Slander. Outright hatred.

The thing about an ambush is that it is meant to catch you off-guard with your shield down. That’s why the source of them is often a shock. David wrote in Psalm 55: “If an enemy were insulting me, I could endure it; if a foe were rising against me, I could hide. But it is you, a man like myself, my companion, my close friend, with whom I once enjoyed sweet fellowship at the house of God, as we walked about among the worshippers.

I sometimes wonder if this close friend was Jonathan.

It’s happened again. I spent another restless night vacillating between what-did-I-say incredulity and forming I-should-have-said arguments with someone who was not even there. My actions were completely misunderstood and the fiery darts aimed at my head remind me of the time I accidentally leaned too close to the Bunsen burner in chem class. Ka-ploof!

I’ve said a lot of stupid things in my time. I’ve been guilty of monopolizing a conversation, of not taking enough time to understand another person’s point of view before responding, of trying to fix people who believed I was the one who needed to be fixed. I deserved a blast of “correction” in those circumstances. But this time my attempts to respond to a cry for help and to extend love stirred up a pocket of hatred which, although it comes from a source totally unrelated to me, is now aimed at me like I personally started World War II. And World War I. And the Black Plague.

I realized I was falling into the trap of being defensive, and entrenching myself in a position which is not what I really believe about who I am nor about who the other person is. I poured out my heart to the Lord.

“Remember what I told you? ‘A servant is not greater than his master.’ If they persecuted me, they will persecute you also.”

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

So what do I do about this pain?

The first thing I saw this morning when I checked my messages was a short video by Tera Carissa Hodges posted by a friend. She was sharing something God showed her in the incident after Paul was shipwrecked on an island. While gathering firewood a poisonous snake latched onto his hand. The people’s reaction was that he must have been an evil person after all and this was something he deserved. “Karma”, if you like. In dream symbolism a snake can represent aggressive lies.

He shook it off. The poison had no effect on him. Instead the people marvelled and responded to the good news of the Kingdom of God revealed in Jesus. She entitled the video “Shake it off.”

Those were the words that stood out in answer to my question:  Shake. It. Off.

Sometimes I walk around with those stupid arrows of cruel words stuck in me for far too long. I watch little children at the beach smash each other over the head with little plastic shovels. They cry, they forgive, they shake the sand from their hair and get on with life. Ten minutes later they are building something fabulous together — or somebody’s mom steps in.

Have you been unfairly attacked by someone close to you when you thought you were in a safe place?

Shake it off. God has plans even for this. You are his beloved child.

And I would write 500 blogs

The Desk
The Station Master’s Desk

Wow! The little counter over on the left says this is my 500th blog entry. And I was worried I would have nothing to say after the first month.

I never knew, when I dared to overcome my technophobia to find an outlet for my poems, paintings, photos and musings, that God would have so much more to teach me than overcoming fear of computerese. I sometimes questioned the wisdom of writing about events of this annus horibilis before there was any evidence of it becoming annus mirabilis. And who knew it was going to be an annus horibilis anyway?

What if things don’t work out? What if I die of ovarian cancer? What if the depression comes back? What if our miracle grandbaby doesn’t make it to term? What if our son-in-love dies of necrotizing fasciitis? What if our son and his family never recover losses from the flood? Maybe I should wait before I write about them, to make sure God answers our prayers.

Then it occurred to me that I am not in charge of God’s P.R.. This is what it is like to walk in faith, not knowing how the cliff-hanger ends. (And honestly I did not make this stuff up. It has been a horrible time -and a miraculous time.) I have also noted that my anxious questions starting with “what if” seldom come in God’s tender voice.

So to celebrate 500 posts I have chosen not the five most popular blogs but five with the most meaning to me -some of them written in blood and some of them written in tears of joy. Five, because the number 5 is symbolic of grace, and Charis, my chosen name, means grace in Koine Greek, the language of the New Testament. (Psallo means song, and since I have lived a life full of songs it seemed appropriate.)

Right off the bat I’m going to cheat on my own rules because these two posts are part of one story that cannot be separated (and I can do that -my blog, my rules, and my bending of rules) This is about how God took something utterly horrible and turned it into something miraculously wonderful. These were written during the time many excellent doctors expected our son-in-love to die from multiple overwhelming complications after contracting an extremely severe case of flesh-eating disease. He has been restored to full health and the story is just too too too good not to tell over and over -so it goes first. Love is Louder and Love is Louder part II

Love is Louder

Love is Louder part II

For the second I am going back into history. After spending decades drowning in soul-crushing depressive mental illness, I was raised up out of the depths. Bluer than Blue

Bluer than Blue

One of the hardest parts in co-operating with Jesus’ healing work and recovering from the prison of the past is the struggle with forgiveness. Letting Go is a poem about stepping away from practised anger and entrenched bitterness.

Letting Go

Red Button, Yellow Button is one of my favourites because the older I get the more I appreciate the insightful wisdom of children before we educate it out of them.

Red Button, Yellow Button

Finally, Night Vision, because Jesus Christ is the Lover of my soul and my greatest desire is to know him and live in his presence.

Night Vision

So now the beautiful, sorrowful, joyful, frustrating, exhilarating journey continues.

Trail, acrylic on canvas
Trail, acrylic on canvas

To borrow from The Proclaimers I would like to make a proclamation of my own:

But I would write 500 blogs

And I would write 500 more

Just to be the one who wrote 1000 blogs

To tell you God is good.

And yes, He will restore.


Building up
Building up and knocking down

I’ve been cleaning house in preparation for Christmas.

OK, the truth is I needed to mail some presents and by the time we dragged out the boxes of tree decorations and cards with mismatched envelopes and holly jolly wrinkled wrap the place was a disaster. I had to get Grampie to move the portable table saw and the camping equipment out first to get at it and that led to a multitude of forgotten junk, old toys and sports equipment from years past spilling out of the tiny storage room under the stairs as well. I had no choice; there was no hiding this stuff. Some thingys had been there so long we forgot we had them and had gone out and bought new thingys when we needed them. Six air mattresses. Really?

So I have been cleaning and sorting and hauling stuff to the thrift shop.

In the middle of my trying to pare down Grampie brought home a big box of wooden blocks he found at a going-out-of business sale. Since we have four grandchildren under the age of three and a half — soon to be five grandchildren– the purchase of blocks does make sense. They love to build to build castles and high towers. Well, some like to build up –and some cannot resist knocking down. They don’t always have the same plans. The little boys especially presume the whole point of building blocks is the satisfying crashing sound they make when they plow through a structure in their stocking feet. That’s when we need to talk about understanding that we need to find out if the other kid wanted their tower knocked down or not. Pay attention. Listen. Usually an adult suggests a plan and gets the kids working together on a project. When it’s done they can all knock it down.

As I was cleaning and sorting, looking for a place to put them, it seemed like a good time to do a little spiritual house cleaning too, what with all the reminders of advent and John the Baptist and repentance and preparing the way and all that, so I asked the Lord to show me any hidden sins –you know, like in the song, “Create in me a clean heart, Oh Lord, and renew a right spirit within me, and see if there be any hurtful way in me.”

Sigh. Dangerous prayer. When I decided to deal with the obvious, other junk I had forgotten about just kept pouring out of my heart closet.

OK, the need to confess sins of omission and sins of commission I understand; some hidden ones in my blind spot became painfully obvious too. Not fun, but God is quite willing to forgive when we are willing to agree with him and it feels good to be clean. Then I ran across this verse about presumptuous sins.

Who can discern his errors?
Declare me innocent from hidden faults.
 Keep back your servant also from presumptuous sins;
let them not have dominion over me! (Psalm 19: 12, 13)

I asked a few people who seem to be a little further ahead on the road than I what they thought it meant.

A kind, wise woman answered, “The sin of presumption is thinking  Jesus came to fulfill our plans rather than that He came to equip us to fulfill his.”

I like this. I need to remember to ask God what His plans are before I go barging through something he is building up -or before I scramble to fix something he is tearing down. I need to ask him what his priorities are, then take the blocks he gives me and work alongside him. Like my husband says, “God’s a good listener, but he doesn’t take direction well.”

Sorry, Lord. Thank you for forgiving me.

Fix my eyes

Photo: the upward road

Today as I awake to Pentecost Sunday I feel like blind Bartimaeus.

I sit by the roadside.

I’ve tripped again.

I cry out, “Jesus, son of David have mercy on me!”

I feel like I am an annoyance and embarrassment to everyone around me,

but I don’t care.

Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!

Master, this is what I want:

I want to see You.

I see all the needy people around me.

I see my inadequacies.

I see my sin.

How can I help anyone on this journey when I keep falling down myself?

Master, fix my eyes that I might fix my eyes on You!

Surrounded then as we are by these serried ranks of witnesses, let us strip off everything that hinders us, as well as the sin which dogs our feet, and let us run the race that we have to run with patience, our eyes fixed on Jesus the source and the goal of our faith. Hebrews 12:1

At a standstill

I was praying:

Lord, I don’t get it! I just don’t get it!

This world is such a confusing place and threats have come from all directions and in my zeal I’ve done some stupid things.

I’m sorry.

I’ve come running to you and asked for forgiveness, like you said.

I’m trying to follow you, to stay close to you, to listen to you, but I feel like I don’t have a sense of direction.

I know you have been helping me grow spiritually but now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.

I’m at a standstill.

I feel hemmed in.


I feel like I don’t have a vision for the future.

It’s as if there’s a kind of darkness around me.

What is this place?

Then I heard Himself speak in my spirit: Under my wings.

Photo: Canada geese by the lake yesterday

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
    will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
 I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
    my God, in whom I trust.”

Surely he will save you
    from the fowler’s snare
    and from the deadly pestilence.
 He will cover you with his feathers,
    and under his wings you will find refuge.

Psalm 91:1-3