Thankfulness is a Weapon

Thankfulness is a weapon --
a weapon against forgetting
the steadfast love of the Lord
and all His wondrous deeds.

Thankfulness is a chain --
a chain that imprisons;
making every discontent thought
obedient to Christ.

Thankfulness is a yoke --
a yoke of humility:
a reminder that I'm not the one
responsible for my successes.

Thankfulness is a burden --
a burden easy to bear.
It lightens even
the heaviest load.

Thankfulness is the narrow gate --
the gate that leads to contentment:
joy in His presence
and awe at His work.

Oblivious Sheep

It was evening, and the sun was just starting its slow slink over the Welsh hills. Below us, the estuary was filling fast with water rushing in from the Irish Sea. Only an hour before, the swirling water we were gazing at was a sea of grass, sheep happily grazing and bleating their contentment in the "warm" Welsh weather.

In the distance, two sheep continued their oblivious grazing, their heads down, focused on their greedy grass-snatching. The sheep around them began to notice the incoming tide and transitioned their grazing to more secure ground.

The sun glowed orange, illuminating the estuary and the two inattentive grazers began to notice their predicament. The water began closing them off from their friends. A devoted sheep companion walked to the far edge of the secure ground, bleating warning while the others turned their backs and sauntered over the hill.

The sun glistened on the waters and now even the concerned sheep was cut off from the others, on an island on its own. The water swirled hungrily around the last bits of solid ground.

The three sequestered sheep were calling to each other. No longer eating, their heads were up, looking for escape but it seemed hopeless. They trotted from one end of their ever-decreasing island to the other, baa-ing and dipping their hooves in the water.

As we stood on the hill overlooking the sheep, we felt completely helpless. We wanted to help the sheep but we didn't know how. We looked around for their shepherd but there was no one. We felt compelled to watch this drama unfold. 

After standing around hopelessly for many minutes, one sheep set out the long way. Cautiously it stepped into the water, then began to trot, and finally jump through the inky waters, headed toward the orange-yellow bridge of sunshine and secure land.

The others saw this leap of courage and followed, though there may have been shorter, easier routes. The water weighed down their thick wool fur as they launched themselves to safety.

We stood on the bank surrounded by the absent-minded bleating of the rest of the flock. We let out our held breaths and cheered for our pathetic sheep friends.

As the last sheep jumped to shore, shaking the water victoriously from its wool, my heart soared. Watching those stranded, hopeless, oblivious sheep felt a bit like watching myself. How often do I get myself into a predicament because I forget to look up... because I'm too concerned about the day-to-day demands? So often I forget to fix my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of my faith. Soon I find the waters rising, the panic rising, the paralyzing fear of making a move, of stepping out, of making a change even though the change is so necessary.

Even a month later, the image of those three sheep scampering to safety, walking on water, to solid ground, the sun illuminating their path is seared into my memory. The reminder that it's not too late to look up. To find my bearings. To step out in courage and make things right.

Hope is Alive

Selfishness and pride.
I have the sin issues of a toddler.

I want to control situations and have meltdowns when things don't go the way I want them to.

"NO" is my favorite word to the people I love the most.

I act as though the world spins around me... around my desires, wants, and hopes.

I have the sin issues of a toddler: selfishness and pride.

At least as an adult I manage to hide my sins a bit better. I put on my "holy" face and go to church. Or put on my "missionary face" and go to work.

But stick me on a long staircase with a broom, bring a magnifying glass to my heart, and all the same ugliness is there.

Put me back on social media and inspect my thoughts... the ugliness is there.

Put me in a car with a slow driver in front of me and listen to my words...  it's there.

Selfishness and pride.

Among the many things marriage has taught me, one of my least favorite lessons has been that I can't keep pretending to be perfect. It's hard to admit imperfections, to be vulnerable and willing to be confronted, and to reveal that those toddler issues are still there. I still balk at being called out, just like a two year old who is shown that the world doesn't in fact revolve around her. And why do I hate it? Because I'm prideful.

And then:

I had closed myself into the bathroom having a full-out pity party on Good Friday, planning my angry stomp around the house. I stuck my nose out ready for said angry stomp and my husband turns up uninvited. He meets me, stops me halfway, and embraces me in a disarming hug.

"I love you... but..."

I tried to wiggle free as I quickly completed his sentence in my mind:

--but you're being awful. I know.
--but you need to change. I know.
--but you need to stop treating me this way. I know.

He hugged me tighter and spoke, 
"God loves you more than I ever can. That's why Jesus came. He died for you."

There is now therefore no condemnation for those who are in Christ. 

It is finished.

And he points me to Jesus... whom I always forget.  

It's hard to confess sin... to family, and to Jesus. And yet, if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. 

Friday was dark and heavy. Because of my sin. 

But the darker the Friday, the brighter the Sunday.  

Sunday was glorious and radiant. Because of His righteousness.

Hope is alive, because He is alive.