My writing is dead...My Lord is Alive

I've sat down to write five times in the past twenty-four hours.


I start to type.


I delete.


I start to type.


I tuck it away to a random folder.


My writing feels dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.


Part of what I'm struggling with is what to share... so much of my life is wrapped up in work (and there are laws about sharing that), and being a new wife (and we're still not sure how the hubby will respond to being a blog topic).


But this morning we sang,

"I'll stand with arms high and heart abandoned,

In awe of the one who gave it all.

I'll stand, my soul, Lord, to you surrendered,

All I am is Yours."

And each and every time I sing that, I want, so very, very badly to live as if this is so. I don't want the words to come from a heart that isn't committed to whole-hearted passion. I want the abandonment of total service to over-ride fear, timidity, and selfishness.

So, that's why I'm writing. I'm making myself write. Writing is my outlet to praising God. Writing is a gift I was given. Writing is my passion. I have to write. Even when the words won't come.

Writing is my praise and worship.

My soul feels tired. Dry. Stretched. New phases in life will do that to you. I don't know how to be a good wife. I hadn't even mastered being single...

But that's not what I've been asked to do. Perfection has not been demanded. I haven't been asked to gush forth new words, new thoughts, new actions... perfection. I can't be the perfect wife, the perfect daughter, the perfect writer, the perfect... the perfect... the perfect...

I want so badly to be perfect.

But that's not what's being asked.

"Do not offer any part of yourself to sin as an instrument of wickedness, but rather offer yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life; and offer every part of yourself to him as an instrument of righteousness." (Romans 6:13)


I am just to offer... all I am is Yours.

 I thank Christ Jesus our Lord, who has given me strength, that he considered me trustworthy, appointing me to his service.

(I Timothy 1:12)

"Hi, Mrs. Skunk!"


(One of the reasons why you shouldn't introduce a skunk puppet to a bunch of Kindergarteners...)

Fifth Avenue in heaven, please?

I'm missing the City. Spending a couple weeks in a location hardly makes one a native, but it can be a little bit like eating samples at the grocery store. "Ooh, that's yummy... I want the whole package!"

I like to think that someday heaven will have a slice of the "big city" feel... I'll get my big city experience in a perfected world.

That sounds nice.

Of Red Mixers and Toothpaste... and returning to the writing rut.

It is with a gasp of relief that I am surfacing from the tidal wave of wedding planning. Granted, there's still some flotsam of residual thank you notes and extra spatulas, but for the most part, I'm settling quite nicely into the rut of being married.

Ruts are nice. I've missed my rut... I've missed writing.

And I've missed my sweatpants.

I tried being "cute" all day, every day after I got married. I managed for five whole days until the last day of the honeymoon when I broke down, "But I don't want to go out for a nice dinner.... Can't I just wear my sweatpants!? I love elastic waists! Please... can't I just be a bum?" And that evening we were sweatpant bums together.

That's why I married him-- he loves me even when I look homeless and hopeless in my men's XL sweatpants. (Why are men's sweatpants so much more comfortable than women's? WHY?)

I have been craving comfort, familiarity... Marriage is delightful. But it's different. Very different.

I'm not used to cleaning whisker-bristles off the sink, and he's not used to the fine dusting of cosmetic powder over his razor. I sort every basket of laundry, his strategy is more of a general "just get everything clean." I leave piles of shoes around every enterance. He forgets to rinse his oatmeal bowl.

He gets up at 6:00 a.m.
And sings.

I get up at 7:00 a.m.
Because he pulls me out of bed.

He carefully works up from the bottom of the toothpaste tube.
Because it's economical and careful.


I just grab the tube and squeeze.
Because it's just toothpaste and I'm in a hurry.

We are two, very different, very in-love, very fallible human beings. And we're probably incredibly entertaining to watch.

But we both love working on our new home. We both like cooking for each other. We like driving to church in the gray sunrise--praying. We like using our different wedding gifts and saying "Wasn't that nice of _____?" and "I hope our future children don't break this..." We like arguing points of literature, movies, and shopping techniques. It is wonderful to have someone to walk towards Heaven with...


He likes fixing tubs.
I like not standing in six inches of yucky water.

I like my beautiful red mixer.
He likes eating the cakes that it mixes.

It's very nice being married... I'm enjoying creating new ruts and new habits. (I'm learning how to squeeze the toothpaste.) But it's also nice climbing back into old familiar ruts...



Yes, this is Courtney as a "Mrs.", but I'm still writing.

Lattes, the Hallelujah Chorus, and Heaven...

My eyes are tired, but open. Propped, glazed, fixed by the caffeine I so foolishly imbibed this evening. 


My old age is peeking out. I used to be able to drink coffee at 10 p.m. and be sound asleep by 10:17. Now, after a 4 p.m. latte, I stare at my ceiling, willing myself to fall asleep.


Tonight, in my sleeplessness, I propped my chin in my hands, snuggled under my down blanket, and traced the moonlight on the tree outside my window. My eyes wouldn't close. Foot tapping, and tired eyes staring, I began to think of today.


Today was a day of exceptional blessings--worship with the family of God, coffee talks (hence the sleeplessness) with delightful sisters in Christ, singing at the top of my lungs with a mass of other believers.


Yet in all this blessing, I was rather wistful. Longing. We talked about it briefly over lattes. Despite a life full of happiness and Starbucks, I still yearn for something yet to come. As I become older, and as I see more of who I am and how truly broken and fallen the world is, I become increasingly anxious for Christ to come back. 


I want to see Him. I want to worship Him, uninterrupted, forever, free from the sin which wraps itself into the very acts which should be most honoring to Him: my prayers, my praise, my meditation. I go from praising God with every fiber of my being, to blatant pride in a split second. I'm so tired of my sin. It is forever sprouting heads like the mythological Greek Hydra... I slice off one head, only to have two more grow.


Imagine the pure, unadulterated joy of praising God. Forever. Have you ever heard a really good performance of Handel's Messiah? When the "Hallelujah Chorus" bursts onto the scene, goosebumps run up and down my arms. 


Imagine that. Only better. Fuller. With every voice of everyone who has ever proclaimed Christ as Lord joining with you. Perfectly. The thunder of the praise, bounding into the stars, spreading infinitely throughout the galaxy, proclaiming what creation has sung for years: "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge."


And as I lay there, tracing moonlit branches, again and again, I wondered, "What am I doing? What am I doing right now to "redeem this time"?"


I know that these "days are evil," but that my purpose in proclaiming the glory of God does not start when I join the multitude in heaven. No, I am told that I am to "shine among [the world] like stars in the sky." I am already designed to portray the glory of God. Here. Now. Flawed. Sinful. Weary. God could have chosen to make me perfect at the moment of salvation, but we all know that didn't happen.


Why?


Because something that I don't understand, something in this battle, which "is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms," something about my struggle to conform to Christ, brings God more glory than immediate perfection.


So, while I wait to join in heaven's immortal "Hallelujah Chorus," am I waiting passively? Or am I actively redeeming each moment. Each second. Each action. Taking "captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ." 


Because, before I sing with that multitude, even more than worshipping with the amazing servants who have gone before, I want to hear my Savior say, "'You remain true to my name. You did not renounce your faith in me.' 'Well done...'"


How good it will be to go home...






************
Scripture used:
Revelations 2:13
II Corinthians 10:5
Ephesians 6:12
Philippians 2:15
Ephesians 5:16
Psalm 19:1-2
Luke 19:17

How much would my life change if I thought of each person I came in contact with as Christ?

Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.

Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.”

May my daily interactions, conversations, and service be colored by the realization that Christ is my motivation and my passion. May the knowledge of who my Savior is eclipse all deterrents to serving Him through those I meet.

May my "attitude be the same as that of Christ Jesus."

Well, I know what God looks like!

A little boy with a tow-headed mop of hair and somber gray eyes looks up at me. I wiggle the magnet board of shooting stars and planets in front of him.

"Look, Adam*! We can play with the outer space magnets now! Which ones would you like? Oooh... look at the funny green alien."

He soberly shakes his head. He's already turned all the the magnets over, again and again. With a sigh, he looks up at me,

"There's no picture of God. It's outer space. There should be a picture of God."

I choke back an unholy shriek of laughter. "It would probably be pretty hard to draw a picture of God. He's so big, you know."

He shakes his little emphatic head, "No, I know what God looks like. They taught me in school."

I'm intrigued, and also wondering where this heretical (or amazing) school is located, "What does God look like, Adam? Tell me." (There's a speech therapy exercise for you!)

"Um... well... He's big... you know... and, uh... hmmm..." He stammers to silence.

There's a pause. He fiddles with the green alien before saying, "Um... well we could just play with the aliens..."



Apparently not even speech therapy can help you coherently describe God.



*name has been changed.