Tag Archives: trust

Honey Tears

IMAG0010The tears start early today. Little drops of golden honey that will bring healing to me and to the chosen who read my next book.

At least that’s what He tells me. That my tears will drop and form words, phrases, and paragraphs, coming from the deep places and calling out to the deep places.

Healing.

Not just me. But me too.

The words will be His heart and mine. Together. Right. For many. For me.

But I barely have energy to move today. The tears started long before I reached for the keyboard. I didn’t work yesterday. Tuesday’s writing was done in dropping tears. Taking a break and pacing the living room. Returning. Hands on keyboard. Until I had to stop.

I don’t want to be in a holding pattern of tears. I want to surrender to this latest call, to bravely go where I have not gone before. To get to the other side for whatever glory awaits. Peace. For me. For others.

Telling my story because we overcome by the blood of the Lamb and the word of our testimony.

Blessing and suffering together. Two cups. He asked me to drink of both. He promised to be in both.

For good. For beauty. For hope.

Not for despair.

But today–and for a stretching of days–I walk through to get to the other side. I choose this journey for love of Him and for love of those He heals.

I choose it in the security of the knowledge that He never does harm. He only does healing.

I brave it because I am loved. Forever. Unconditionally. By Him.

Please pray me through my friends.

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Heart Rambles

There are deep places I don’t know how to process my way out of. Or if I even should.

Longing. Uncovering. Unveiling. Questioning.

The seemingly unrelated intertwine, vines growing in and out of each other, connected inside of me in some kind of whimsical garden where fruit trees grow over tomato plants and pumpkin vines wrap 1athemselves around rose bushes and potatoes sprout underneath the daisies.

Everything blooms and produces at once, whether in season or out.

Longing for much.

To create.

To embrace.

To enter.

Beauty, writing, twinkle lights, family, weighty words, advent flame, laughter, celebration,

Magical and spiritual, a slow dance and a jig.

Joy.

How can depth come from jigging or jigging from plumbing the depths?

How do the seasonal rhythms I  crave relate to thanksgiving, creating, relationship .  . . God?

What are words?

Their place within me and without?

And how is joy both cotton candy and meat and potatoes. Short magical romance and long soul-digging?

Being seventeen in a snap of the fingers, embracing pumpkin pie aroma when life grows hard, seeing the good where others criticize. Rose colored glasses? Impossible?

Judged. And yet desiring more, not less.

Entering into the moment. Creating the moment. Embracing the moment. Believing in the moment.

Vulnerable and child-like. Rolling eyes ridiculed. Lauded and applauded. Strength in soft flannel baby blanket.

Not Pollyanna, but not beyond liking her.

Miracle on 32nd Street silly.

Departures deep.

Both. Not either/or.

Stretching means embracing what others judge fluffy meaningless. And yet stretching also encompasses the deep places where others dare not tread.

Stretching means believing where some can’t.

And in all things, where are the words?

Do I trust them to germinate, to take root, to grow into an oak even as they pop up in crazy Dandelion yellow, determined little things, white daisies and bluets and Virginia Spring Beauties? Both platypus and regal lioness, tiny fish-tank turtle and mighty grey elephant? Dancing kitten and elegant giraffe?

Faith.

All this joy-seeking, word-growing, rhythm-searching returns there.

Of course.

Letting go of confusion, ego, questions. Holding longing loosely, lifting to Hands wiser than my own, while allowing the tears to beg for their place, for understanding and release, for fulfillment.

And yet knowing some ache is only treated in glory.

Letting it stand. Without giving up.

Trust.

Until Next Time,

Paula another test (401x192) (2)

PS Found the rambling recently. I wrote it years ago, but it fits again as I re-enter my dreams to create. I let it go for a while, this focused writing thing. It was required, my time away. But now I return.

Where Am I Putting All that Stuff?

Maybe it was just another one of those expressions Christian use that was supposed to make me feel better.

But it didn’t.

And that made me feel worse because it sounded so spiritual?

And I wanted to be a good Christian.

“Just lay it down. Leave it at the cross.”

Only no matter how I nodded my head and tried to feel better about that concern being at the foot of the cross, it didn’t truly help. It made a little more sense when the saying was used to encourage me to let go of guilt or shame.

But it didn’t help with worry.

Recently a friend and I were talking about giving a huge concern to the Lord. She said,  “I know, I know. I just have to lay it down.”

And suddenly I thought that wasn’t really what I meant at all.

The well-meaning phrases gave me a visual of passivity. A good little Christian should be able to trust God so much that she can just let go and give it to God and walk away from the worry.

In my mind I saw my very real concern wrapped up, almost like a present, laying at the foot of the cross.

I gave it to God. Now I wasn’t supposed to worry anymore. But in the picture in my head my very important concerns were at the foot of the cross. Just LYING THERE. But that’s as far as the visual went. Were they forgotten? How long before God picked them up and DID something?

I can’t tell you how many times the LORD has asked me, “Do you trust me?”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to let go of control, let go of worry, let go of very real problems I couldn’t solve.

There really is something to that. I’m not saying there isn’t. It’s just that sometimes all that Christian verbiage of “lay it down . . . let it go . . . walk away . . . release it to God” don’t really make me feel like letting go.

But what what I’ve learned is when I give something over to God, it’s into his hands. He not only holds it for me, He ACTIVELY works in the situation. He is never idle, never forgetful, never leaving my precious struggles lying forgotten on the ground.

He’s WORKING.

 

LOVING.

MOVING. STRATEGIZING. WEAVING IT ALL TOGETHER. REMAKING. SOMETIMES EVEN TEARING DOWN FOR THE PURPOSE OF REBUILDING.

When I’m asked to “let go” it’s not so I can be peaceful while nothing changes. I only let go to LET GOD have the primary RESPONSIBILITY and INFLUENCE in the situation.

I’m not really walking away from my concerns, I’m simply giving them over to His leadership. I’m relinquishing my “right” to be in charge, to think I know best, to try to fix things in my own limited strength and wisdom.

I’m getting my hands far enough away that they don’t hinder the Hands of the Master Fixer, Master Designer, Master Weaver.

And I’m awaiting guidance to do my part.

Because He often has something I’m to do. It’s just not usually the controlling thing I was doing.

I’m never just laying my burden down. I’m always giving it over into more capable hands.

Working hands, not idle hands.

 

Loving hands, not disengaged hands.

keereekoo

By Richard H Huttemann

 

Never abandoned. Never ignored. Never forgotten.

 

Always embraced. Always given attention. Always remembered.

 

 

Until next Time,

Paula another test (401x192) (2)

 

Most photos on this post found here. The other found here.

Letting Go (Again)

IMAG0129The house is empty except for me.

After all the bustle, all the people, all of the cooking and feeding and talking, I am exhausted.

But more than that, the Mommy heart once again has to say goodbye.

I awoke to my youngest son rushing out the door for his first “real” job. My husband left before that. The other boys (men, really) drove away yesterday to face the grind of a semester end and finals week. My daughter is with her husband.

The only sound I hear is the gentle hum of my laptop.

It would be easier to say goodbye if my boys had looked eager to leave. My oldest worked on a major paper until the minute he drove away, his stress levels palpable. My middle son is farther from home, too far for a quick weekend visit. He is where God has called him, (I know this!) but he is lonely. He said one of the things he missed most was an environment where spiritual conversations happen. That it is very dry where he is.

That it was hard to go back.

I suppose the tears slipping from my eyes have dual prompts. I miss him terribly, but I also cry for him, for the path he now walks, mostly alone.

Never alone. Because I have given him to the One who never leaves or forsakes.

But beyond the reach of Momma’s arms.

But never beyond the reach of Momma’s prayers.

Whew.

And so I’ll keep praying.

A friend told me, “Transitioning from under the wings of God at one’s parents’ house can be hard as children emerge into adulthood. It’s taking what was safe and “belonged” to mom and/or dad and making it your own, then trying to integrate it into the bold-faced truth of life. It’s almost like they have to learn how to walk again. A lot of the times they slip and fall or, if they’re tired of the bumps and bruises, decide to try another path. But God IS faithful and promises us this: “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” (Proverbs 22:6)

This is right. It is so right–the moving out and beyond. I want them to be established. Independent. Strong.

My son can’t see his growth yet, but I do. He is emerging, growing into the skin of manhood he long ago donned. The foundation–for good or not, I pray for good–is laid. And now he builds.

Not me and dad.

Each child now adult chooses which bricks will make the man or woman.

I can no longer control. I can no longer choose for them.

Even my advice must be offered sparingly and with prayerful timing. Some personalities receive it more quickly than others.

It is my job to be wise about when and what I share with them. If I give them the freedom to be adults, they allow me the advice-giving. If I push too hard, their ears close.

Which is as it should be.

Really, it is not my life to build. I no longer pour the concrete, frame the structure.

It is their turn.

I survive this because they are not alone. The One who watches and sees, the One who promises to complete that which He started, is overseeing the process. And while my children still choose, there is a hand upon theirs helping them lift the right bricks. There is a whisper in their hearts directing their choices.

Thankfully, those kids have a lot of wisdom.

Still, there will be days they turn from the whisper, pick up a brick unsuited, nail the wrong board. But He will be there then, too. He is overseer. He will see the structure is solid.

And I will pray.

I will call out to the only One who can be with them forever. The only one who cares more than their dad and I do. The only One who makes any of us stand strong.

I hope the bricks I would not choose for them will be far and few between, but I will not despair when they come. Because all is never lost. I entrusted each of these precious children into the hands of the Faithful One when I could still cradle them in my arms. I entrust them to Him now.

He never falters.

He never wrings his hands wondering what to do.

He never gives up.

He always loves and builds.

He promised to finish the good work He started.

In me.

In them.

And so I’ll cry a little. Pray a lot.

And learn to let go.

 

 

 

Monday Morning Makeover ~ Opening to Good in 2014

How can you open to the good of 2014?

Hush

Hush.IMAG3104

I love that word. It says so much more than quiet or still or silent.

It’s a breathless space. There is peace mingled with anticipation.

Yearning mixed with tranquility.

It’s calm.

There is no disturbance.

It’s a mood of the heart.

It’s part of inside-out weight loss.

Shedding of the hurry, at least for a moment.

I didn’t grow up in a tradition of Advent. Actually there was no Christmas worship of any kind.

I’ve come to treasure Advent’s hush. This year my quiet span has included a book of daily readings from a Celtic Advent tradition–which means 6 whole weeks instead of four.

Each week I lit a new candle symbolizing Father, Holy Spirit, hope, peace, joy, and love. In a few days the final candle will burn, signifying the light of the Christ child, my Lover and Best Friend, Jesus.

In this span of hush my heart is quieted, yearning without disturbance. And when the crush of struggles invade my peace, this restful space helps me realign with all that is Good and Holy.

With Him, the Three in One, the Creator of all.

There has been no moment as precious as these to me this season.

For a short time, at least, I am able to turn from the cares that invade my day and simply rest.

I light a candle, “Praise to You, Loving Father, Creator of All, Most Powerful.”

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And my heart kneels, submitting to One wiser than I.

I light a candle, “Praise You Holy Spirit. You are my Teacher, Guide, Counselor, and Friend.

I need Your direction today.”

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And my heart kneels, welcoming His Guiding Presence.

I light a candle, “Thank you for hope.”

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And my heart kneels, choosing belief over despair.

I light a candle, “Thank you for peace.”

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And my heart kneels, releasing worry, embracing calm.

I light a candle, “Thank you for joy.”

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And my heart kneels, claiming singing, dancing, swirling joy,

asking that He teach me to live like that.

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I light a candle, “Thank you for love.”

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And my heart kneels, receiving acceptance from the One.

Giving self permission for love. Allowing Love to permeate the parched places.

And soon I will light the last candle.

Breathless space, anticipating hush.

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Complete in Jesus.

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As the countdown to Christmas ticks away, my you embrace a quiet hush.