Fighting Blobs

This past week, I had the pleasure of five straight days of my niece and nephew (spring break for little miss). Hence why I haven't been writing much.

These kids are absolute joys. They kill you with a smile. And of course, I'm thrilled that they think I'm great at everything and lots of fun to boot!

I'm not really great at everything; there are some things that are certainly passion, though. And I work at them to be great. The love comes easy.

So Sunday, the three of us are sitting in church. My nephew decides he doesn't want to be there, even though he insisted on coming, too. I told him we'd leave as soon as church was over, since grandma was not coming to get him (she was busy hiding easter eggs). I handed him the back of the sermon outline and a surprisingly worthy pew pencil, and he set to work doodling.

Ok, scribbling. He's 3.

But the kid loves to draw. He will draw for hours if you let him. He also knows if he doesn't describe it to you, you'll never get it. On that back of that sermon outline, he drew one little squiggle blob, then tapped me on the shoulder and said, "It a monser." I said, ok buddy. Nice monster. Then he drew another little squiggle blob, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, "It a alin." Ok, buddy. Nice alien.

Then he took that pew pencil and furiously scribbled all over the entired thing, then looked up at me with the biggest smile and said, "They fighting." I smiled back.

He looked back at the drawing for a few seconds, kind of tilted his head a little. Quiet. Thinking. Then he turned the pencil around and started trying to erase. Trying because, well, it was a pew pencil; the eraser was long gone. Broken or bitten off many moons ago by some other little doodler, I'm sure. I mean, uhm...."note-taker." "Faithful, attentive, devout note-taker."

That's what I meant.

But watching him try to erase, it was all I could do not to bust up laughing out loud. Right there in the church service.

It's a squiggle. It's two blobs and random frenzied lines all over everything. What did he see in that drawing that was erase-worthy? Just to scribble again when he was satisfied it was rubbed out.

To him, though, it made perfect sense. That was his masterpiece. That was his beauty. That was his art. And something about it wasn't right. He was going to make it right.

I can't blame him. I feel that way about my work, too. Most of what I do - it's nothing really. It seems that way, while it also seems like everything. It is just perfectly natural for me. It is what I was created to do, and when I'm tapping into that - it seems so small and insignificant, and yet I know that it has its own power. It is speaking something to someone somewhere that I - and the world - and even God - could never say any other way. I get that.

Still, there are times when I feel like a lot of the world is looking over my shoulder and seeing scribbles. They are seeing a mess that they don't really understand sometimes, and I am tempted to look up and say, "It a monser." That way, at least they know. In fact, I have spent a great deal of time doing just that. Looking up, declaring loudly what I'm up to, what I'm working on, what I'm doing. Trying to convey through that bold voice and assertive tone that this matters. That this means something. And trying to make people understand.

What I wanted them to understand...was that I was justified. In this passion, that doesn't seem to be a whole lot by a lot of bizarre standards, but it means the world to me. Because it is in these moments that I touch God. And when I touch God, I also touch a part of myself. And when I'm touching that heart of myself and touching my God, I am able to touch the world.

Then one day, it happened. There I was: scribbling. I looked up to declare my accomplishment, and He was there staring back at me. Before I could utter a word, He said, "Ok, buddy. That's a nice monster." And I just smiled so big and went back to it.

Because you see, the thing about it is this: When you're doing what you're doing, and you're fully engaged in it, and you're touching God and you're touching that deepest part of you, and HE's touching that deepest part of you, all you really want is to know that someone gets it. And you can spend your life shouting about it, looking for that validation from somewhere else. But it's already in your heart. It's there where God dwells.

He whispers, "Ok, buddy. This is what I have created you for."

And you get it. And it energizes you. And you look down at what may or may not be scribbles, but it makes perfect sense to you. So you turn that pencil around and start rubbing away what doesn't make sense; you want to go back and make it right. For no other reason than to honor your gift.

What do you need to rub out to let your gift come through? What doesn't quite make sense, but with a little tweak here and there, will mean something more? Are you looking for the world to validate your passion/gift or are you looking up at God with that biggest smile on your face with the pure joy of doing it?

He is smiling back.

Authentic Joy

Lord, don't ever let me grow comfortable.

I've seen what happens when people grow comfortable, and there are really two big categories of behavior.

There are the people who grow so comfortable that they forget the magic. They forget the love they once had for something because the passion becomes the routine. The magic becomes mundane. The joy and the wonder and the awe become the everyday, the have-to, and the plow-through.

Then there are those who grow so comfortable they become sarcastic or cynical about the whole thing. I think this happens a lot in families - you hang around each other so much that you get the fake name-calling, the pretending not to like people, the "say it with a smile and you can be as mean as you want" kind of attitude. It happens in communities, too. In work and in service and in groups and just about everywhere. One eye-rolling answer to one question turns the whole attitude of the place.

"You having fun?"

No, not at all.

That's the answer. It doesn't have to be that question; it doesn't have to be that answer. But it's always something like that. Then, somehow, everyone turns and gets the same sarcasm, the same cynicism. Before you know it, every interaction is defined by this unwillingness to be enthusiastic about anything and it drains the authenticity from the situation. Even when you think you know the heart of the presence in the room.

I have been as good as anyone at this in my life. With projects. With people. After awhile of talking this way, of answering people with the expected surreptitious answer instead of an enthusiastc, honest one....it drains on you. You start to say things like "I have to..." and mean it. The thing you were once so passionate about becomes that dreaded have-to, plow-through, nothing special chore. And in terms of people, you lose the love there, too. You can only call someone a buttwad so many times until it loses all humor and they really are just a buttwad. (Anyone else got brothers?)

Because of the sarcastic answers, the cynic in you grows and you're surrounded by this beige world with nothing really to hold onto.

Sigh.

I have been as good at this as anyone because it was dominant culture growing up. I don't want to say growing up outside of the church, though I certainly think this had some part in the crudeness of the culture. But I have seen the same things in churches, so I know this is a widespread attitude.

It took a lot of years, and it has only been in the past few that I've seen something different. Another way, if you want to go so far. Because on the other side of this cynicism...is authenticity. And the sad part is that even the cynics are secretly excited; they have just lost the way to express it.

There is this profound sense on my heart that the sarcasm has to stop. The building of cynics is tearing us down. How do I know? Because in one quiet moment (and in many quiet moments since), God has been whispering to me about this. He's changed the way I talk, the way I act, the way I respond.

I think it would be awesome if we could all embrace the magic again. If we could get in touch with the mystery and with our passions and with our loves. If we could build each other up instead of tear each other down (even while hoping they know we're "only teasing"). If we could throw ourselves into our work - whether it is work we are paid for or just something we pick up on the side, our hobby or our craft, whatever it is - instead of barreling through. It's like we work just to get the project done so that we dont' have to think about it any more and don't have to hide our excitement, lest we get embarassed by our enthusiasm.

There's something authentic in pushing the biting aside and just living the joy. Holding the holy. Remembering the moment. Doing what we love - and saying so. Sharing our energies. Getting each other pumped up. Getting ourselves pumped up.

God isn't in the sarcasm. He doesn't care of the *wink* *wink* *nudge* *nudge* that our words, our attitude, and our presence isn't what it seems to be; He doesn't want us to live with a world we hope knows we care when we aren't acting a whole lot like we do. He wants us to live by that energy and go full-boar (with the ravenous, headstrong, steadfastness of the wild animal) and not settle for full-bore (the mundane).

Wouldn't it be cool if we could live authentically? If we could call each other out - hey, brother! hey, sister! - instead of calling each other down - hey, buttwad!? If we could look at each other, look at our lives, put our hands to it, and then when someone asks, "Hey, you having fun?" we could answer:

Absolutely! This is incredible!

I just think it would be nice to spread some authentic joy for awhile. To be gentler with ourselves, with our passions, with our friends, family, neighbors, and community. I just think it would be cool....

So I want every moment to be new, and I want to know it as such. I want to thrive, to take each breath with a glimpse to the heavens, and to just live this life unfolding. I want the wonder to stay. I want the magic to take hold of my heart. I want the mystery of the universe to keep me energized and engaged.

So Lord, please don't ever let me grow comfortable.

Say What?

It's a favorite pasttime (or is it passtime) of every generation: debating the actual words of a song, commercial, movie, or colloquial phrases when everyone in the conversation hears something different.

There might be a little dust on the what? The bottle? the Bible? the bottom? Don't let it fool you about what's inside.

And there's that new commercial with Rocket Man booming out the speakers. They show a handful of people tossing in their own last phrase, then the guy with the car with the awesome sound system finally figures out what the real words are. And everyone is like, "ohhhhh!"

Because when you see it, you get it. It makes sense.

Or does it?

Sometimes, we have those phrases that we've heard over and over again and we think we know what they are, how to use them, and how to spell them. I've already used one here: pasttime. But then someone inevitably posts something on FaceBook with an alternate spelling or some little twist that makes you have to stop and think because it looks almost familiar, but you haven't seen it like that.

Then, does that make more sense?

Pasttime. Something we have done for ages and thoroughly enjoyed; a historic or nostalgic concept/activity. Or as one of my friends put it several months ago...is it passtime? Something we do to pass the time; leisure; enjoyment; pleasure.

Either makes good sense, and to be honest, I kind of like passtime, too. Though if you'd asked me before I read that friend's status, I would have insisted it was pasttime. Obstinately.

Another one, and this is what kind of sparked this, I quipped on Twitter a week or so ago. I had always considered things to be deep-seated, but another status chose the alternate spelling: deep-seeded.

And I definitely like that.

I've had some things in my life - many I haven't been proud of, a few that I have - that I've considered deep-seated. And that, they were. They sat heavy on my heart like a lead weight. Just sitting there; seated deep. Burdening. Hindering. Oppressive. I wouldn't have thought anything so deep-rooted could be anything else.

But there are great, beautiful, wonderful things that God sets deeply inside of us. It can be easy to let these things be deep-seated, a burden of the life we should be living. Things we should be doing. Waking up in the morning, rolling our eyes, and saying, "Yeah, I know, God. It's still in there. I gotta live it."

What if we thought of these things we'd like to foster, these wonderful gifts, these deepest truths that rest in our hearts not as deep-seated, but as deep-seeded? What if we embraced them as planted within us, primed for growth, ready to sprout? What if we took what is deepest within us and saw it not as a burden, but as a chance for new life?

What a world of difference spelling makes!

I'm fairly certain I will use deep-seeded again, particularly when I encounter someone trapped in the deep-seated. I think it is a powerful tool for introducing someone to the power of Christ and His deep-seeded love.

So the next time you see - or hear - something that seems sort of familiar, but you can't quite make it out, open your eyes and ears a little further. There may be a hidden beauty in a different way of looking at it, reading it, writing it, living it.

Say what?

Potted

There is a certain beauty to this flower, this bromeliad. I've been looking at it in the store forever, and it is a gorgeous plant. You know what? When I got it home and repotted it in that big brown pot, it looked better than ever!


So...large. And so....full.


The truth is, it would be sin to be sad about the pot now. Maybe even heartbreaking. This flower, it was made for this pot; and this pot? It was made for this flower. The two look so absolutely gorgeous together. Even if I missed my empty vessel that bad, there would be something hollow if I repotted the plant yet again. Something dimming in the plant, which wouldn't look as good in any other pot. And something hollow in the pot because now, I would remember this image: when it held this beautiful foliage and looked so vibrant.


It makes a different statement now as a full pot rather than an empty one.


As much as I love the idea of being an empty vessel, poured out before God and waiting for Him to fill me to overflowing, I also love the idea of a flower. I love the idea of the Potter potting in me something so perfect, so beautiful. Something that, when you see it, you say, "That was made for that very spot." When you look at the two of us together, my pot and His flower, you know that neither of us would be better without the other. We are perfect together. I was made for His gift, and His gift - so graciously given - was made just for me.


I love the idea of standing there, potted, enticingly and demonstrably full but with the capacity and promise for growth and the ability to soak in the water. Living water, if you will.


There's something about the empty vessel. But there's something about the full one, too. And if I took out of me what God has put in, if I poured myself out, obstinately demanding to be an empty vessel, you would see the same as you would with the pot: in the absence of the pot, the flower doesn't look as radiant. And in the absence of the flower, the pot has something hauntingly hollow about it.


I am so blessed that the Potter who formed me is also the Potter who fills me, that through Him, I am able to stand full and firm, primed for growth though elegantly beautiful. That through Him, I am matched with my perfect gift, His created blessing just for me, where we are perfect together.


And you know what? All is not lost in the empty vessel world, either. For when He saw fit to pot in me this gift, He leaves behind another empty pot, somewhat smaller, but perfect for a seedling. Something new to grow. Something new to hold. Some kind of promise to develop...a new empty vessel, poured out and ready to be filled.

Empty Vessels

I love bowls. Cups, vases, pottered things. Ceramic things. Glass, plastic, terra cotta things. I have several sitting around my room (which is also my office) and they are mostly empty. Until yesterday, they were all empty. Except, ok...except the one that has some delicious candy in it. But that is a fullness that ebbs and wanes according to my appetite.

It's just that as beautiful as I know these things are, I never know what to put in them. Like a new journal full of empty pages or a new house with barren rooms. I want to stay true to the integrity of the piece, but the integrity of my peace, too. And I just can never decide what goes in something so beautiful, so inpsiring, and so promising as an empty pot.

It is kind of intimidating.

And I really didn't know that I loved them empty. It hadn't occurred to me. Once in awhile, one will hold something transient - candy, for example. Or some beads and a fake carnation. Or my workin'-outside gloves, hat, and glasses. But those things come and go; that pot could be empty again in a second.

Yesterday, I removed said gloves, hat, and glasses and filled one of those pots - a plain brown flowerpot I'd scored at Lowe's for something ridiculous like 50 cents (clearance!) - with a beautiful flower. Now, I love the flower. A pink bromeliad, which should thrive in my low-light room. And I love the pot. Simple, brown, but somehow elegant.

As I was falling asleep last night, though, I couldn't decide if I liked them together.

They are beautiful. I guess "they" are now "it." It is beautiful. And while I'm thrilled at having the flower, I'm kind of sad I lost a pot. It's not like I can go out and buy an identical pot to sit empty again; it wouldn't be the same. That pot is committed now to that flower until the flower dies or outgrows it.

I'm just not sure what it is. But then I realized this: had I not put the flower in that pot, I would have still been anxious to get that flower of its store pot...just to have the beautiful store pot to sit around, too.

Empty.

(Don't ask me what I would do with the flower without giving up a pot. I haven't a clue. It is a beautiful flower, and I absolutely love it, too, for its own merits. I have wanted one of these for a long time.)

There's just something about an empty pot. And empty vessel. It has so much promise, so much potential. It is elegant sitting there by itself, defined by its own beauty and not by whatever may or may not be in it. The candy looks delicious, but did you notice the dish? It is elegant and enticing. I just want to walk over and hold it, to see what it is, to feel it in my hands.

I want to be that empty vessel. I want to be elegant in who I am, standing apart and confident, not needing to be defined by what is in me. I want to invite the potter Who formed me to be the potter Who fills me (see that play on potter? I've been working on that for awhile.). I want to stand empty before my Lord, to be held in the hands that formed me, to be full of promise and potential, to be ready to be filled to overflowing, to receive whatever is poured into me.

There's just something about an empty vessel...like a journal full of empty pages or a new house full of empty rooms. I don't want to be laden with something that this world says I should carry around. I want God to look at me and decide what goes in here. I want Him to look at what I am on my own, the beauty and elegance He's created in me, and find a way to grow and honor that as He fills me to overflowing.

Which is not to say there's no room for flowers.... A little more on that tomorrow.

Are you living as an empty vessel? Poured out before God, seeking His wisdom to fill you?