Tag: Holy Spirit

An hour away

On By Charis PsalloIn Black and white, MountainsLeave a comment

Photo: looking north

(Click on photo for larger version)

The far mountains in this photo are about an hour away.

We tend to measure distance in terms of time in this vast country. It will take an hour to drive to the village at the base of those farthest mountains. In one hour the time will be here and the place will be now –and the details will be much clearer.

We live in the present but have an awareness of the future lying just one step further ahead on this journey. God is present-future. When he forgives our past, it is forgiven.  He sees who we will become as clearly as if it were today. He knows the plans he has for us and calls us by our future name. He desires us to see ourselves from his viewpoint so we will have the courage to walk in our new identity.

He remembers the future. He shows it to us by his words and allows us to say, “This is a picture of me when I was older.”

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ— by grace you have been saved— and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God,  not a result of works, so that no one may boast.  For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them. (Ephesians 2)

So let us know, let us press on to know the Lord.

Storms May Come and Storms May Go, Part II/ The Storm that Came and Went This Week

On By Charis PsalloIn Uncategorized5 Comments

Photo: The shade tree a few weeks ago

We live in a valley running north/south that receives relatively little wind. Yesterday a mighty wind blew up from the south and hit our town hard. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of trees fell.

I know there are many places that have suffered much worse wind from tornadoes and hurricanes. I know there are cities that have much longer power outages and much more uncomfortable heat. I know there were places in the world this very week that suffered much worse violence and death.

I am overwhelmed by the news sometimes. I don’t know how to grieve for those places. I can volunteer to send aid, or even go pick up the pieces myself. I can weep with those who weep but I can’t honestly say “I know how you feel.” I don’t, not really. Every heart has its own pain.

Today I grieve for my town and for my own little garden. Is that selfish?

I loved my May tree. I never planted it. Someone who never saw it in its mature beauty had the foresight to put a skinny little stick with a couple of branches into a hole in a new subdivision. They moved away before it had the time to become the shade tree under which my sweet daughter and I had tea parties, or developed the strong limbs my boys pridefully climbed, waving at their nervous mother from a position higher than the roof of the house. The planter never knew how my little grandchildren loved to drag the blue inflatable pool into its shade on hot days and splashed each other or filled plastic ice cream pails with water from the elephant sprinkler to water the big shade tree. They never saw friends sitting in its shade, drinking ice tea, combing the grass with bare toes as they talked about things that really matter. They never saw handsome suited young men and their pretty sparkly prom dates posing for portraits beside its thick trunk.  They never heard the songbirds that nested in its high branches praising their maker at the first sign of dawn. But they had faith to plant it, and I thank them.

Today instead of waking to the Saturday morning drone of lawn mowers, the people in our town woke to the sound of chain saws.

I walked around town photographing downed trees, downed wires, smashed carports, and debris and detritus caught in the most unusual places. The roads were blocked, the traffic signals hung by a cable and swung in the breeze. Everywhere people wandered about telling strangers their stories. “Where were you when the storm hit? Are you OK? Is your house OK? You think that’s bad? Why over on  14th…”

Eventually I wandered home no longer able to ignore the fact that the tree I loved buckled through the trunk and now tilted at a dangerous angle.

It had to come down.

Some friends arrived with chain saws. I covered my ears with music on earphones, or chatted loudly with friends we invited over for meals and to re-charge their phones and devices, since somehow our block still had power.

But it still sounded like a chain saw massacre in my garden.

Am I silly to grieve a tree?

I had to re-read my own post of a couple of days ago. Storms may come and storms may go. Wonder just how many storms it takes until I finally know you’re here always.

Yes He is here. We are safe. The tree fell away from the house. Our house is fine and still maintains its roof, and unlike many on our street, all of its shingles. We are still wealthier than most people in the world. The storm brought out the best in people.  Neighbours came out into the street to check on each other and help each other. We laughed and joked with relief when we heard that, miraculously, no one was seriously hurt. We pooled our melting ice cream and partied.

But tonight I mourn.

Change is seldom easy, and rarely do we feel like we are ready for it, but things change. God is still in the restoration business and He is still good. I trust him to see the bigger picture. I praise Him and bless His Holy name.

Tonight I mourn.

Tomorrow we will start to clean up.

And then I shall plant a skinny two-branched shade tree to bless somebody’s grandchildren.

Photo: The shade tree after the storm

Around town:

Related post:

https://charispsallo.wordpress.com/2012/07/17/storms-may-come-and-storms-may-go/

Storms may come, and storms may go

On By Charis PsalloIn Art7 Comments

“Recovery”

Acrylic on panel

When I saw this tree beside a dirt road in the country I knew I had to paint it. The main trunk, struck by some calamity, had died, yet the tree was not dead. A branch, still nurtured by the roots, became the new tree.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but desire fulfilled is a tree of life. (Proverbs 13:12)

Sometimes we think our dreams are dead. Sometimes it looks like all hope is gone. Sometimes it’s our own fault and the dream looks as though it has died as a result of our own foolishness. Sometimes health fails, spouses leave, businesses crumble, loved ones die. I don’t blame God for nasty things that happen in our lives. But I trust him to turn them into something good.

We live in a fallen world where the consequences of a single sin can have a domino effect that goes on for generations. Innocence lost is innocence lost whether it is the result of our own choices or someone elses. But God can restore and build on the very things that cause us so much pain. He’s so good at using our disastrous circumstances that we may think He set them up. Not really. Jesus Christ didn’t come to condemn; he came to save. He came to set us free.

I painted a storm behind the tree. Is it approaching or leaving? Storms may come and storms may go; I leave that decision to the viewer.

The words of an Amy Grant song came to mind as I worked on this. I wonder just how many storms it will take until I finally know Jesus Christ has promised to never leave me or forsake me?

Arms of Love

Lord I’m really glad You’re here.
I hope you feel the same when You see all my fear,
And how I fail,
I fall sometimes.
It’s hard to walk on shifting sand.
I miss the rock, and find there’s nowhere left to stand;
I start to cry.
Lord, please help me raise my hands so You can pick me up.
Hold me close,
Hold me tighter.

I have found a place where I can hide.
It’s safe inside
Your arms of love.
Like a child who’s held throughout a storm,
You keep me warm
In Your arms of love.

Storms will come and storms will go.
Wonder just how many storms it takes until
I finally know
You’re here always.
Even when my skies are far from gray,
I can stay;
Teach me to stay there,

In the place I’ve found where I can hide.
It’s safe inside
Your arms of love.
Like a child who’s held throughout a storm,
You keep me warm
In Your arms of love.

In Him there is no fear.
No fear!

The three note symphony

On By Charis PsalloIn Uncategorized10 Comments

Photo: The sun breaks through the rain

Open the Floodgates of Heaven
Open the Floodgates of Heaven

 

Dream:

I’m in a television studio watching the recording of a talk show. The hostess is a youngish woman whose usual topics I consider to be, well, a bit shallow. The person she is interviewing this time is a composer and conductor. I don’t recognize him, but she seems a bit out of her depth.

She starts the interview by admitting she knows very little about music, but always wished she had some talent in that area, especially that she could sing.

The composer tells her anyone can have a part in making great music. He demonstrates three simple notes for her to sing (do, so, mi) and gets her to sing along with him …do, so, mi…do, so,mi…do,so,mi…

He tells her not to stop, then picks up a clarinet and starts weaving a tune around her three notes as she concentrates on singing.

A classical guitar joins them. The music I hear in my dream is soft and gentle and quite pretty.

Gradually more instruments join in –a cello playing continuo, a violin, a French horn, each adding to the melody making it more complex but still very lovely.

As I listen I close my eyes and the sounds become ribbons of colours winding around each other to weave a three-dimensional  tapestry. The tension and drama in the music rise to a crescendo that blasts a trombone fanfare of thunder. Staccato flutes and harps and pizzicato violins ping like raindrops gathering into rivulets, streams and a mighty river.  I see waves of sound surging through the valleys like floods in the desert. I see trees on the hillsides growing and producing ripe fruit as soon as the blossoms and leaves emerge. I see fields of ripe wheat waving in rhythm and sunlight piercing through dark blue-grey bruised banks of cloud. I fly over the earth like I am riding on the wings of an eagle.

I am carried away by the sound of the most marvellously beautiful symphonic music I have ever heard. In the dream it seems to last for hours. I ride on the wings of song played by a thousand instruments. I’m sailing over mountains and coastlands, forests and oceans, gliding through waterfalls and mists over mossy green islands.

Gradually the instruments drop out one at a time, like the droplets in a heavy downpour diminuendo from summer downpour, to shower, to sprinkles. I have been so immersed in the music, trying so hard to remember the themes that I have completely forgotten about the woman in the TV studio. As the music simplifies I hear the violin fade out, the guitar stop and I am again in the studio. The composer is left performing a duet with the woman who has her eyes shut in concentration. Her mouth is still open. She is still singing the three notes, catching up to composer’s rhythm after taking a deep breath every once in a while.

The entire symphony was composed and played around her three notes.

He ends the song gently, quietly, sweetly, and she opens her eyes in amazement.

He smiles.

The woman and I both gasp. We recognize him. It is the Master Composer. The great conductor. The Creator of all things. He turns and looks at me kindly. He disappears.

I wake up.

I rush for a pencil and manuscript paper but when I sit at the piano to write the music down, it disappears like a vapour of memory.

For hours I want only to go back to sleep so I can enter the dream again, but both sleep and the dream elude me. I pace around my house in frustration.

Later I call my friend and tell her about it.

“Do you think the woman represented me? If that was me what are my three notes?”

I no longer have the voice I once had. I know the great arias, I sing them in my head, but when I open my mouth the sound I expect to hear is not there anymore. I used to be a coloratura soprano. Nothing was too high or too ornate. I had great reviews, ovations, attention, “so much potential.” I thought my voice was my ticket to earning a place of respect in this world; it made me feel strong; it made me feel like there was some little piece of beauty in an otherwise plain person from a poor family. I studied for years –then my health failed, and my voice failed with it. Now…it’s better after people prayed for me, but, it’s just not the same. It hurts to think about singing in public, or even in private sometimes. Letting go of my identity as a singer took years of mourning.

I said to her, “Tell me, if I have only small range left what do  you think my three notes are?”

She didn’t hesitate. “He has shown you, O woman, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?” ( a paraphrase of Micah 6:8)

I know she is right.

Jesus Christ is the great composer. He takes what we can give and multiplies it into something way beyond our imagination.

Yarrow and the War of 1812

On By Charis PsalloIn Uncategorized2 Comments

The yarrow has spread like crazy in my garden. It’s an ancient plant known for its ability to help stop bleeding. Achilles carried it into battle for his soldiers. That’s why it’s called achillea and also soldierswort.

In some wars, the battle plan involved maiming as many warriors as possible because caring for the wounded reduced the number of men available to fight. That was before warfare meant dropping bombs on children, before fighting for justice became fighting for personal peace alone and every man for himself became a default position. It was before fear became the commander-in-chief.

I watched a documentary about the War of 1812 in North America this week. The fort in Detroit fell without defending itself because the commander assigned to guard it was terrified of aboriginal Americans. He didn’t realize Tecumseh marched the same group of war-whooping men past his viewpoint five times. After cowering in his room, the guy who was supposed to lead the fight gave up without a fight. He lost the battle in his mind long before any foes showed up.

Since Jesus Christ rose from the dead after teaching his disciples to pray, “Your kingdom come. Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” the battle against the father of lies has been over. Christ has already won the victory. The enemy is defeated. Now its a matter of taking back occupied territory and restoring what has been stolen or destroyed. The weapons of this fight are not guns and bombs or fists or even tough negotiation. God’s weapons tear down lies that have kept souls prisoners of fear, those behind prison walls of despair, bereft of hope that healing or change is possible. The greatest battles take place in our minds.

I learned that another battle in the War of 1812 totally failed when troops became confused and started firing on each other. Sometimes people who mean well don’t listen well. In blind panic they start shooting their own. Sometimes, forgetting to ask God for more effective spiritual weapons or better strategies, soldiers leave the wounded behind. There are also those who pick up the weapons of the world and shoot hostages, rather than rescue them. Not-so-friendly-fire.

I wonder if there are more souls wounded by factious denominational tribalism who are crying out for help than ever before. Instead of stopping to care for them, other frightened troops are embarrassed by them. I’ve even heard “experts” say that some of the church-burnt and those wounded in the fight who are bleeding and acting out in pain, ought to be shunned to teach them a lesson. They question if they were ever really on “our side” anyway.

I wonder if most of the “mission field” in the Western world is made up of the casualties of spiritual abuse. Where the spiritual medics? Where are the healers carrying metaphorical yarrow of kindness and goodness to staunch the flow of blood?

Even winners can be wounded in the fight.

Two seemingly disconnected things caught my attention this week. Yarrow is a pretty flower in my garden. The War of 1812 was another of thousands of fruitless, selfish, pointless human skirmishes that accomplished nothing of lasting value. (The Americans captured Toronto, but the Canadians burned Washington, so in the end they simply traded them back.) but maybe we can still learn something from both of them.

You may feel some discomfort

On By Charis PsalloIn Poetry, Uncategorized5 Comments

Photo: ceramic dome

(Inspired by a Learning Channel video about a Canadian surgeon who taught brain surgery to doctors in a tiny Russian clinic. The patient was required to be conscious in order to participate in the procedure.)

 

You May Feel Some Discomfort

Perhaps I had my eyes closed when your assistants bashed

my horizontal chariot through the swinging doors.

I didn’t see that sign.

Just as well.

If I had known

the surgery you intended to perform

(removing the run-away tumour of mal-formed thought)

required me to be awake for the procedure

I may have searched for an alternate practitioner,

one who would anesthetize me

with framed platitudes hung beside

hand-penned personal testimonies

of painless probes

and joyful function (temporarily) restored.

I would have,

at least,

googled the back pages of ancient pdf-ed medical knowledge,

or youtubed reports of accidental new age discovery,

or followed the links to a parallel universe of  pharmacos deliverance.

I confess to some disrespectful misuse of your name

when the raucous drill began its breakthrough,

(can you really buy those at Walmart?)

but once my thoughts lay open before you

I merely concentrated on

raising my arm

and opening my hand.

Thanks for letting me rest

as you reassembled my humbled dome

(and for being careful to leave room for expansion).

There.

Done.

Invader gone.

Mind renewal.

Thank you, God.

You’re good.

Very good.

It just gets better

On By Charis PsalloIn Uncategorized8 Comments

new growth

 

Peggy Lee’s song from the 60’s, “Is that all there is?” came to mind this week when I saw many of my young friends post pictures of graduation and the prom on Facebook. A former grad admitted to me that the whole thing was a little disappointing. After looking forward to it her entire school career as a magical night of glamour and celebration (and possible romance) in the end it was the same old people standing around in expensive, uncomfortable clothes saying and doing the same dorky things they said and did last week –and the week before, and the year before.

Dare we admit that some of the moments we were told would be the highlights of our lives were not all that brilliant? I came away from my high school grad party thinking like Peggy, “Is that all there is?” (Mom worked so hard to put together the perfect evening, but I was not permitted to go to the prom dance and since my dress was a gift, I never got to choose it. The guy I had just broken up with turned up with his fiancée and the last minute substitute escort was called home by his mother because she needed help getting his drunk uncle out of the bath tub.) Even if everything had turned out as planned I think I would have been disappointed.

The problem: I have an imagination.

Sometimes I feel like asking people not to give rave reviews to a movie or book or performance –or even a cleaning product that sounds like heaven by way of a sparkling shower door. I almost wish people hadn’t told me how wonderful life experiences like a wedding or childbirth and breastfeeding or a vacation in Mexico or a standing ovation after a performance were because although there were wonderful moments in all of them, secretly my imagination took liberties went a step further than reality. As great as many experiences have been there was usually a bit of “Is that all there is?” when they were over.

Solomon said it first in the book of Ecclesiastes, the book that epitomizes is-that-all-there-is disappointment and the limits of human’s wisdom and logic. He wrote, “I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.” and “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” (He ends the book of his experiences with this: “Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.”)

Peggy’s song repeats Solomon’s observation of vanity:

If that’s all there is my friend, then let’s keep dancing.

Let’s break out the booze and have a ball, if that’s all there is.

Peggy’s song also dared to address fear of the final disappointment:

I know what you must be saying to yourselves.

If that’s the way she feels about it why doesn’t she just end it all?

Oh, no. Not me. I’m in no hurry for that final disappointment.

For I know just as well as I’m standing here talking to you,

when that final moment comes and I’m breathing my last breath, I’ll be saying to myself,

Is that all there is?

Perhaps disappointment is our greatest fear. Perhaps this is what motivates so many sermons and pop theology books. They are less about hope and faith than the pragmatic guarding of our hearts against the possibility of disappointment.  Like King Saul before his first battle we take things into our own hands when it looks like God may not show up in time to make our party a success.

I think the best moments in my life have been surprises:

-coming around a corner on a logging road to see an entire hidden valley of golden tamarack aglow in low evening sun,

-my wee little grandson this week, bringing me a grocery store flyer and pointing to a photo of watermelon to show me what he wanted when he is too young to have the words (Yes, I gave him some.)

-my “barren” daughter announcing her pregnancy

-my precious son, held prisoner in a dark basement of depression, coming up the stairs into the light saying he wanted to be baptized

-my four-year old grandson telling me he had a dream of sitting on Jesus’  lap and being hugged and hugged and hugged

-my husband covering my desk with Lindt chocolates on our fortieth Valentines Day together

-hearing a voice say “Run!” when I was up in the woods praying, then discovering that when I dared to attempt it the asthma and arthritis that had crippled me for so long were gone

-my mother with a broad smile and look of recognition on her face toward someone we could not see as she stepped into eternity from her hospital bed

-and so many more.

I believe this is not all there is. I believe God gives us promises that will not be disappointments. I believe that my imagination will not spoil the surprises he has for me because I am not capable of going a step beyond the greater reality. My imagination is no match for his.

“Is that all there is?”

No! Not by a long shot!

Now to him who by his power within us is able to do far more than we ever dare to ask or imagine—to him be glory in the Church through Jesus Christ for ever and ever, amen! (Ephesians 3:21, 22)

Oh, dear children of mine (forgive the affection of an old man!), have you realised it? Here and now we are God’s children. We don’t know what we shall become in the future. We only know that, if reality were to break through, we should reflect his likeness, for we should see him as he really is! (1 John 1:3)

He restores my soul

On By Charis PsalloIn Art, Uncategorized20 Comments

Beside the creek in the cool of the evening

I have joy.

For many years I could not say that. The best I could do was say, “I’ll be happy when…

when this course is over,

when I have a driver’s license,

when I am married,

when this baby is born,

when tax season is over,

when the swelling goes down,

when I get my Dad settled in his new home,

when the bills are paid,

when the house is clean and organized,

when my kids are doing well,

when their bills are paid…”

There was always a reason to postpone enjoying the moment, something that still needed improvement, some potential disappointment that needed guarding against.

I used to think that when I managed to finish everything on the job list I could reward myself with feeling a little joy.

I rarely finished the to-do list -and never finished the worry list. That list I took to bed with me.

Jesus said his burden was light.

Mine wasn’t.

I lumbered from burn-out to burn-out and laboured under thick layers of guilt.

In a dream, the Lord showed me a heavy suitcase. It was full of things that needed prayer. He said sometimes I needed to set it down. It would wear me out if I carried it all the time. Sometimes I needed to leave it with him, walk away and enjoy the scenery.

In a way, that is why I took up photography and painting. They make me pay attention and become more aware of beauty. The evening  light does not wait until the paperwork is done and the hedge is clipped and all the hungry people in the world are fed and all the sick are healed.

Sometimes on this journey we need to leave the heavy stuff and the “whys” in his care and sit by the stream in the cool of the evening and allow our souls to be restored. Right here, mid-crisis, in the hidden grottos of the valley, with all of the threats and fears and opposition looking on like jealous, ravenous beasts, God prepares a place of rest and safety and refreshing for us.

I am learning (slowly) to set the suitcase down, step into the joyful freshness of God’s presence and allow him to restore my soul -in that infinitely tiny and infinitely spacious moment called “now.” That’s where the battle is won.

Thank you, Lord. You are good.

Through the river

On By Charis PsalloIn Uncategorized2 Comments

Photo: River rock in the flood

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;

when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,

and the flame shall not consume you.

For I am the Lord your God.

(Isaiah 43)

I took my little granddaughter swimming this week. The new pool has a “river” with a strong current that is so much fun — to me, anyway. Daisy spent a lot of the time standing on the edge of the pool throwing balls and floating toys at me in an aquatic game of  “fetch”, in which I was supposed to respond to her bidding. I tried to convince her to jump into my arms, but she whined that she didn’t want to. It was too scary. I knew I would never let her go under and that learning to swim is a very useful skill that starts with getting in the water. She didn’t know that.

So often my prayers are more about worrying at God and trying to convince him to take my discomfort more seriously, so he will stop it, than they are about listening to him. Instead of asking,  “God? What are You trying to show me and how can I honour Your plans?” I am often more likely to holler, “Ouch! I don’t like this lesson! Fix the problem, don’t fix me. I’ll be just fine when the world changes, thank you very much. I don’t really trust you to keep me safe.”

Instead He answers, “Trust me. Listen to Me. Do it my way and you will not be overwhelmed. It looks scary, I know, but you are capable of much more than you think. Let me show you.”

Trust vs. fear. The lesson always comes back to trust.

First I have to jump into his arms.