Tag: grace

Strawberries for Breakfast

On By Charis PsalloIn Photography5 Comments

IMG_0705 strawberry house

When he placed a bowl of fresh strawberries in front of me at the breakfast table, I knew I was in the home of a truly wealthy person. I was about ten-years old and our family was visiting an old friend who had inherited a grand Edwardian home in Vancouver. The previous owner kept it exactly the way it looked when his wife died in the twenties. It was a fine house with servant’s quarters, and call bells, inlaid parquet floors, and portraits of important-looking people peering down from the walls around the grand staircase. Our host gave me my own room with a four-poster bed and a Romeo and Juliet balcony -and strawberries on fine china for breakfast. I felt like a princess.

I don’t think my grandchildren believe me when I tell them that we didn’t have nectarines, or kiwis, or sushi, or even pizza when I was a kid. Pizza was a new fad when I started Jr. High school -and let’s just say it had not yet been perfected. We never had fresh green vegetables that didn’t come straight from the garden in the summer. We ate canned peas, corn and green beans and boiled carrots most of the year. Spinach was this vile black stuff in a yellow and red can that even Popeye would be loath to touch. Fresh Mandarin oranges, wrapped in green paper, only showed up at Christmas; peaches, nestled in wooden boxes, came off the back of a truck from the Okanagan in August; and strawberries, ah, beautiful strawberries, came in little woven baskets at the end of June. Strawberry season was so special that church ladies had strawberry teas just to celebrate. And we had strawberry shortcake with piles of whipped cream, or strawberry and rhubarb pie, or strawberries and ice cream for dessert until the season was over about a month later – but always at the end of the last meal of the day, after we had earned it by dutifully downing our mushy canned peas or yucky spinach.

But strawberries for breakfast? I had never tasted anything so good. Who has dessert first thing in the morning?

 

IMG_0702 strawberry house

I was thinking about Jesus’ first public miracle when he changed the water into wine at Cana. When he chose to replace the water with wine and to use the six giant stone vessels that held water for religious purification rites, he was deliberately messing with some folks’ idea of decently-and-in-order. He provided a taste of the wine to come (which, in Biblical metaphorical language, represented The Messiah’s blood ) in a display that was just like His over-the-top grace.  It was His job to show us what God, his Father, is really like, so He did. When the banquet manager tasted it, he was amazed that it was better than the wine the crowd was already a little tipsy on (because, as he noted, that they probably wouldn’t appreciate it properly by this point.) Like God’s grace, it’s quality was better than required.

At the wedding that marked the beginning of his public ministry, Jesus was giving a taste of the goodness of the Father, a filled-to-the-brim abundance of provision, to people who had no appreciation for its significance. John says he revealed his glory there – and he offered his family and friends a taste of the glory to come.

In God’s economy we do not have to strive to earn His favour. Like strawberries for breakfast, His goodness is served up for people who do not realize it is merely a taste of the glory to come.

Taste of His goodness; see how wonderful the Eternal truly is.
Anyone who puts trust in Him will be blessed and comforted.
(Psalm 34:8)

This week I had strawberries for breakfast -with sushi.

Spiritual Claustrophobia

On By Charis PsalloIn Fields, Uncategorized9 Comments

IMG_0630 longview morning

I learned something about myself yesterday. When the doctor set up the MRI appointment she asked if I was claustrophobic. I said no and I thought it was an accurate answer. Apparently I lied. During the procedure I ran through my entire repertoire of meditation, positive visualization, prayer for others and calming songs in my head… Looks like I’m due for an upgrade. I tried not to think about the reason for being there, and I did endure to the end (including re-takes, because breathing too hard apparently jiggles your head -even when it is stuck in a cage) although I didn’t exactly hold on to peace.

The tiny logical side of my brain (the part that required state-of-the-art machinery to find) could scrounge up some attitude of gratitude that a mobile unit with such fine diagnostic equipment was available in our town, and that I live in a country where having pre-existing (Is that like time travel?) condition and (technically) being unemployed didn’t put the cost of medical insurance out of reach.

But logic alone didn’t cut it when I was so squished in that tube that I had cleavage up to my chin (or maybe that’s just where I folded) and my head was held rigidly in a cage with warm sponges on either side of my face like an visiting auntie’s unwelcome embrace.

I sang “You are My Hiding Place” (in my head) and I thought about being safe in a cocoon, and even imagined Jesus holding me tightly in  a loving hug. But honestly, it wasn’t long before I felt like yelling, “Jesus! Let go –now !”

I was only about 15 minutes into a 45 minute procedure at this point. I squeezed my eyes shut and decided to visualize the opposite instead. Wide open fields, with lots of sky. I pictured myself flinging my arms wide and dancing. Instead of restriction I imagined latitude, expansion, immensity –freedom.

Hey! I made it. (Although the technician noted, as he pulled me out, “You didn’t like that much, did you?”)

I prayed for him a lot while I was in there. The Bible says to pray for those who spitefully use you. He’ll probably get a new car.

 

I am learning that when I am in a tight spot without good solutions (quite literally this time) it is often because the Lord wants to give me an upgrade so I can better understand who he is and who I am and what he has for me -by showing me what’s missing. I’m learning to say, “Well, that sucks. What do you want to do instead, Lord?”

I was in no danger in the MRI machine. There was fresh air blowing in and the technician hovered only a few feet away. I could hear him on an intercom so I could talk to him and demand to be removed if it came to that. He told me instant removal is not an unusual request.

So, processing this experience later, I asked the Lord what that was all about. The old song, There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy, started playing in my head.

Then the thought came: The reason I had to be under such restriction was because all this technology was focusing on finding what is wrong with me.

It hit me. Sometimes we need to focus on a problem so we can be aware of it and take steps to fix it — and it’s not a comfortable experience. But sometimes we can become so introspective, so perfectionist, so merciless, so restricted by the traditional constructs of this-is-the-way-it-is-done that we can’t move. We have no elbow room, no vision, no freedom. Sometimes religious practices that major on striving to be better by finding and rooting out all impurities end up feeling like being in an MRI machine week after week, month after month, year after year, and the end result is that we are more conscious of our sin than we are of the freedom we have in Christ. We become dependent on an institution or a mediator to point out our sin so we can do a mea culpa self-flagellating kind of repentance that keeps us restricted to a tiny sphere of influence. Without a vision beyond the confines of our own making, we, at best, merely endure.

Abba seems to be talking to me about grace a lot lately. I think I’ve got it, but then he says, “There is more! There is more, more, more than you have ever imagined! There is wideness in My mercy. I give you latitude.”

With both feet planted firmly on love, you’ll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ’s love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us. (Ephesians 3 The Message paraphrase))

The first thing I did when I was pulled out of that machine was to stretch my arms and go outside where I could see the sky. Freedom feels wonderful.

 

I was going through photos looking for something else last night, when this one caught my eye. I took it near a place called Longview.

 

Holding On and Letting Go

On By Charis PsalloIn Flowers, Photography2 Comments

fushia

I’m holding on to hope

I’m holding on to grace

I’m fully letting go

I’m surrendered to Your ways

For some reason these lines from the song, Anchor, have been stuck in my head for a couple of weeks.

Perhaps letting go of anything that does not glisten with hope, or float with grace is surrendering to God’s ways.

Grace gives us permission to move and explore like an unsteady toddler who is anchored to a loving Daddy’s finger…

or like a pretty fushia in her ballet skirt, dancing in the breeze, yet nourished and sustained by a connecting stem.

The Brilliance of Grace

On By Charis PsalloIn Flowers, Uncategorized5 Comments

arise shine mock orange charis

This is the brilliance of grace: it welcomes our darkness into the light and does nothing to it, knowing that it doesn’t have to, because darkness thrives on hiddenness, and it’s at the mercy of the light.

Light drives out darkness, not the other way around.

When we no longer have to push our darkness back down beneath layers of shame our darkness doesn’t stand a chance.

-Dr Kelly Flanagan

 

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Dr. Flanagan on Why I Don’t Believe in Grace Anymore  (It’s a short article – and please don’t jump to conclusions until you have read the whole thing.)

Honouring Our Differences

On By Charis PsalloIn Flowers, Photography10 Comments

IMG_1418 Wendy's peony 5ch The other evening my neighbour invited me over because the light was right. I love it! How many people would do that? She gets me! This time of year the sun sets further to the north and she was enthralled by the light that made the flowers on her dining room table glow. She knew I would enjoy it too, so she phoned me to come over -and bring my camera.   IMG_1403 irises ch Earlier in the week another friend, who I love dearly, confided that she didn’t understand why some people had an emotional reaction to things like rainbows and sunsets. They were pretty and all, but didn’t give her any particular thrill; their formation is easily explained. She’s good at a lot of painstaking, repetitive, detailed tasks that would have me running for the nearest exit before I collected my pay cheque, gladly receiving the label of irresponsible scatter-brain rather than do one more inventory.

Yesterday I noticed that another friend I admire was excited about getting a handle on organizing her studies in Greek and Hebrew so she could spend her summer reviewing before launching into her Ph.D. work. Today yet another friend talked about how much satisfaction she is getting from building fences and raking 7.5 kilometers of new trails on their ranch. The neighbour who invited me to see the way the sun struck her flowers is a fabric artist. She is fascinated by colour and has a unique hobby; she is a dyer of fabric.

IMG_1437 Wendy's irisch   My husband and I had another, um, opportunity to share grace with each other this week. I needed the password for a device we supposedly share, but I seldom use. I had to find him and ask because I couldn’t remember it. This is why I can’t remember it: he throws strings of numbers in his frequently changing passwords. I am a numerical dyslexic. Quantity I comprehend. There is simply no file in my brain for numbers as identifiers. Blue house with a pink plastic flamingo in the yard by the dog groomers, I can remember. 12302- 37th Ave. (I made that up -sorry if it’s your address) falls right through the huge colander holes in my number memory file. Phone numbers? Hopeless. And don’t get me started on model numbers. All you will get is a glare if you ask me if I bought the A8932 or the A9934 version.

“The green one.”

How am I possibly supposed to remember that password?” I whined at my husband. The man has no problem. He sees numbers as having as much personal distinctiveness and identity as a blue house with a pink flamingo. He just remembers them (numbers, that is – a blue house with a pink flamingo might as well be on Mars.)

I think I finally found a way to explain my frustration with his choice of passwords. I grabbed a dictionary with a dusty/reddish/rust coloured cover and asked him to remember that shade and go buy a piece of fabric to match. He looked at me dumbfounded. “Can people do that?”

IMG_1420 Wendy's peony 2ch   My neighbour could. Most of the time I can too. He’s not a visual learner. He’s a verbal processor and I’ve learned to pretty much ignore everything he says until he comes to some sort of conclusion.

Here’s the thing; we don’t all think or feel or learn or enjoy life the same way. Consideration -one aspect of love- is being aware that not everyone is like me. Loving myself as God loves me means giving myself permission (grace) to be different without guilt or comparison. I can’t remember numbers, and that’s okay. My husband does not have a strong visual memory. He will walk right by a pink flamingo for 23 years and never notice it, and that’s okay -annoying, but okay.

I love this observation by Kris Vallatton: Arrogance is not thinking too highly of yourself. Arrogance is not thinking highly enough of others.

We tend to value our own currency most highly; that is, if we are task-oriented we will admire people who work hard. We will compliment projects that exemplify hard work. My dear hard-working German mother often complimented needlework or fine meals with an acknowledgment of how much work went into it. Another person might notice how much thought went into it, or how much artistry was involved. I grew up being rather deficient in the hard-work and joy of labour department. It took me years to realize she truly enjoyed baking bread before her morning shift as a nurse and then cleaning the kitchen until midnight. Work gave her as great a sense of satisfaction as the wretched sense of dissatisfaction being chained to  long hours of physical labour gave me. It has taken me even longer to quit feeling guilty about not being like her.

In the big C Church we tend to do the same thing, and we end up discounting or dishonouring those with different ways of seeing, hearing, feeling, learning and doing. Over here we have the go go go-type and here the contemplative-type, and here the emotional, demonstrative-type –  many of them feeling guilty for not being more like the others, and some of them wondering what the heck is wrong with everybody else.

IMG_1435 Wendy's irises 2 ch   I am beginning to realize that unity is the result of the love and grace we extend to others by blessing their differences. Grace is the permission God gives us to fully become who we are meant to be in Christ. At the heart of unity is love, which honours the beauty of the image of God in each one of us, however that manifests.

Then the light shines -as through the colours of  flowers that an artistic person noticed, sitting on a table a practical person moved, and photographed with a camera an industrious person designed, and an entrepreneur sold and a meticulous person inventoried…

Mixed Message

On By Charis PsalloIn Uncategorized2 Comments

like and savech

“You have an odd concept of freedom,” my friend said.

Odd? It was the definition I grew up with –freedom is the ability to choose to obey.

“Can you disobey?” he asked.

“Not without suffering rejection and other dire consequences,” I answered.

“You have an odd concept of freedom,” he said.

Freedom, like grace, was a concept I struggled with during my much-delayed adolescence (that took me well into my forties). It took me a while to figure out that I had accepted mixed messages without question.

Mixed messages are crazy-making.

I just read a recipe that defines mixed message for me. It calls for a bowl full of lovely, fresh, healthy vegetables, sunflower seeds and green grapes. To this collection of organic goodness you add 1/2 a pound of diced fried bacon, eight ounces of grated cheese, and a salad dressing that crams the maximum number of calories possible in the form of fats and sugar into a measuring cup. Healthy with a death wish.

Some people who talk about grace will welcome you into their church and tell you that you cannot earn God’s love and that salvation is a free gift, that Jesus paid it all. They will point out the verses that say the purpose of the law was to demonstrate, like an impossible-to-please teacher who never gave out perfect marks, that you were never quite good enough. You could never obey all the rules perfectly, no matter how hard you tried. But now you are free; you are saved by grace through faith.

That’s it. They welcome you to the fold.

Then they remind you to pick up a copy of the new rules on the way out.

The new rules are book length and some of the pages written in ink so faint you need special secret decoder ring and spy glasses to read them. And guess who has the decoder ring and spy glasses?

Mixed messages are crazy-making. They’re like a green salad that will give you a myocardial infarction before you get to the gluten-free zucchini muffins.

Grace is not sin-consciousness; Grace is Saviour-consciousness. Grace is not about your failure; it’s about Jesus Christ’s success. Grace is not about who you were; it’s about who God sees you as.

And freedom? Freedom is permission to run toward that destiny – person you are becoming in Christ, unencumbered by fear of making mistakes, and being secure in the knowledge that you are cherished by the One who holds his arms open wide.

You are precious in his sight. He absolutely adores you, you know.

Like and share only if you want to.

Save

Save

Actually

On By Charis PsalloIn Fields, Photography, Sky4 Comments

 

What if God is actually who he said he is?

What if you are actually who he says you are?

IMG_9589 prairie rain cloud field ch

God has placed a promise and a provision next to every difficulty. When we locate the tribulation, we uncover the revelation that is also present. We stand on the promise, looking at the provision and we rejoice! As we “count it all joy,” [James 1:2] the truth becomes our experience and we are set free. -Graham Cooke

We all live off his generous bounty,
        gift after gift after gift.
    We got the basics from Moses,
        and then this exuberant giving and receiving,
    This endless knowing and understanding—
        all this came through Jesus, the Messiah.
    No one has ever seen God,
        not so much as a glimpse.
    This one-of-a-kind God-Expression,
        who exists at the very heart of the Father,
        has made him plain as day.

(John1:16-18 The Message)

One Grace After Another

On By Charis PsalloIn Flowers7 Comments

IMG_0100

For out of His fullness (abundance) we have all received [all had a share and we were all supplied with] one grace after another and spiritual blessing upon spiritual blessing and even favor upon favor and gift [heaped] upon gift. (John 1:16 Amplified)

“Do not put child in bag”

On By Charis PsalloIn Man made4 Comments

IMG_2045 do not put child in bag   Seriously? “Do not put child in bag?”

This was on a deep mesh bag on the back of  two-seater child stroller that the mall loaned out to shoppers. It was obviously meant as a catch-all for parcels, purses and winter jackets. Put a child in the bag? You’ve got to wonder who necessitated a warning like this.

There are other examples of dumb warning labels on the internet.

“Warning: May contain nuts.” — On a package of peanuts.

“Do not eat.” — On a slip of paper in a stereo box, referring to the styrofoam packing.

“Remove occupants from the stroller before folding it.”

“Warning: May cause drowsiness.” — On a bottle of Nytol, a brand of sleeping pills.

“Warning: Misuse may cause injury or death.” — Stamped on the metal barrel of a .22 calibre rifle.

“Turn off motor before using this product.” — On the packaging for a chain saw file, used to sharpen the cutting teeth on the chain.

“Not dishwasher safe.” — On a remote control for a TV.

“Do not use if you cannot read safety label.” –On a bottle of pills -with a safety cap.

I spent many years trapped by a sense of not being good enough, of feeling it was my duty to serve an angry god who was perpetually disappointed with me. It seemed all I heard were warnings from people who presumed I was too dumb to figure out for myself that sin was not a good idea. I felt I was being labeled stupid and treated dishonourably by a lot of those warnings. I heard a lot of “shoulds” and not a lot of “hows.” There were an awful lot of rules, but not much peace or freedom.

This is what I have learned since then: God is good.

He loves us because of his character, not ours.

It is his kindness that leads us to change the way we think.

His grace is over-the-top and in no way can we earn it.

We are forgiven, but our relationship to God is fully restored when we respond to him and admit we have done things that required his forgiveness and we need to change. Change occurs when we get a better picture of who He is and who He created us to be.

Can I be honest and say sometimes I shake my head in wonder when people respond to this message of abundant grace with outrage and expressions of fear that this will offer those (who apparently do not rate highly in the area of common sense gifting) an excuse to sin?

“But they need warnings! How will they know that sinful behaviour is bad unless we tell them?”

Seriously?  Like they haven’t noticed that sin sets off consequences like a Rube Goldberg device that can play out for generations? Like being told that horrible punishment awaits them for messing up doesn’t chase people away from the only One who can clean them up?

Paul, the guy who hated people for not following religious rules so much that he tried to imprison and kill followers of Jesus had this to say after he was changed by an encounter with the real promised saviour -the One who loved him:

Now we find that the Law keeps slipping into the picture to point the vast extent of sin. Yet, though sin is shown to be wide and deep, thank God his grace is wider and deeper still!

The whole outlook changes—sin used to be the master of men and in the end handed them over to death:

now grace is the ruling factor,

with righteousness as its purpose and its end the bringing of men to the eternal life of God through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Now what is our response to be? Shall we sin to our heart’s content and see how far we can exploit the grace of God? What a ghastly thought! We, who have died to sin—how could we live in sin a moment longer? (Romans 5:20, 21; 6:1,2 Phillips translation)

Put a child in a bag? Sharpen a chainsaw while it’s running? Play with a gun? Continue to sin and think that’s good for you -and everyone else in the world?

What a ghastly thought!

The Kite and the Hero

On By Charis PsalloIn Art, Photography3 Comments

kite beach ch

I was about eight-years-old when the boys down the lane said they were going to beat me up for breaking their kite. It was a flimsy kite, one of those corner-store balsa wood and tissue paper assemblies with a picture of some serious stars and stripes American guy in a tall hat, who pointed his finger accusingly at a girl who didn’t know enough to stop running when the thing dive-bombed into the ground.

I had begged them for a chance to fly it and when they told me to grab the string and run, run, run, I did. Then it crashed and I apparently dragged it through the construction debris scattered in the empty lot. I saw one of the boys punch his friend in the arm for being so stupid as to let a girl try to fly the kite. It was a boy’s toy after all.

Then they threatened to punch me unless I paid for it. Both of them.

I slipped by all the grown-ups in the living room on the way to find the piggy bank hidden under my bed. I was crying, but I knew enough not to bother anyone with my problem. Their tone was serious and I was afraid if they found out I had broken something else there would just be more trouble. I was used to not being noticed –because I knew how not to be noticed. It was my fault, after all. I did break the kite. I would have to look after the problem myself.

My uncle was standing in the hall when I came out clutching my precious coins.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

He noticed. I was afraid, but I choked out the story of how the boys told me to hold the string and run and not look back, but then the kite broke and now they were going to beat me up.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll walk behind you.”

“What?”

“I’m going with you. I want to talk to those guys.”

My uncle was barely more than a teenager, but he was a hockey player, a defenceman. In this part of the world that carries a lot of weight. For one thing, he was nearly a foot taller than everyone else in the family. For another, he was known to spend an inordinate amount of time in the penalty box, which seemed quite all right with everyone who went to cheer at the games.

I walked bravely down the lane with my uncle backing me up. I had never really noticed how magnificently tall he was before. The boys were confused when they saw him. I don’t know whether they wondered if they should run or ask for an autograph. I kind of hoped Uncle would throw some of that influential weight around and knock them over.

Instead he grunted, “How much was that kite?”

“A buck,” one of them said, looking up, way up.

Uncle took out the wallet that hung from a chain attached to his back pocket and handed him a dollar bill.

“And how much did that one cost?” he asked the boy who held an intact version of the one still in the middle of the crash site.

“Seventy-five cents,” he answered, suddenly struck with an uncharacteristic streak of honesty.

Uncle handed him 75 cents and said, “Give her your kite.”

He did so.

“If you ever threaten a girl again you’ll answer to me,” he growled. When they took off running he grinned.

I walked home with my money in one hand, my kite in the other and a new admiration for my uncle in my heart.

Have you ever had a week when the same topic, or the same book or the same quotes keep showing up in unusual places? I keep running into Psalm 18, about how God defends his loved ones. I know that means I need to pay attention, that there is something about Himself I haven’t truly understood before that the Lord wants to show me. I was meditating on this Psalm when the memory of this incident with the kite came back. Our Defender not only walks with us, he covers our debt, he gives us what we never earned and he brings us safely home. God is good that way. He is my hero.

I have a harder time picturing Him in skates and a jersey though. But who knows…

I love you, Lord;
you are my strength.
The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my savior;
my God is my rock, in whom I find protection.
(Psalm 18:1,2)

Save

Save