New Address...

I'm moving...
Due to ongoing issue in Blogger, I'm moving Flirting with Eternity to WordPress. Won't you please follow me there? The new address is:
http://flirtingwitheternity.wordpress.com/

Question...

Last week I stumbled upon the singer/songwriter JJ Heller. After listening to bits of a few songs, I downloaded the entire set. This morning one of the lines struck me:

Falling in love with you was easy
You were always meant to have my heart

The song is obviously about her relationship with God. I believe God did create us with a "God shaped vacuum" as Pascal (or someone-it's origin is debated) wrote. So I do believe He was meant to have my heart.

But is falling in love with God easy?

For the few who read this blog, I'd really like to hear what you have to say...don't be afraid...there's no right answer. And honestly, this strikes me this morning because, although I feel guilty and somehow wrong saying it, falling in love with God doesn't feel easy or even natural. So, tell me, what do you think? What's your story? I'd love for you to post it here, but if you're more comfortable emailing me, that's fine too.

p.horstman@hotmail.com

Closet Cleaning...

Cleaning the closet.
I just wanted to make space for my vacuum.
Who knew a simple task would eventually lead to tears.
On a mission, sorting and chucking, I didn't think I just did. But, as I dug deeper into the closet, the magnitude of my task struck me. I pulled out box after box bearing scribbled labels like: army guys, Playmobile, Lego's, blocks, Lincoln Logs, Play Dough, beads, and Lord of the Rings. That's when it really hit me. I remember buying the Helm's Deep playset for the boys oh-so many years ago. I remember the unabashed look of pure delight and disbelief on their faces Christmas morning. How can I give this away? How can I simply throw it in a box, drive it to the donation center and leave it? I know it's just plastic, but...
All these memories wrapped up in all these toys...my heart hurts...there's a lump in my throat. I'm saying goodbye to an era in the simple act of cleaning out this closet.
Good bye to marathon sessions of building make believe towns and communities that eventually pushed out beyond the playroom doors and spilled over into the rest of the house.
Goodbye to Polly Pockets and Littlest Pet shops and American Girl dolls.
Good bye to epic battles fought and re fought over mountains of furniture and in valleys of carpeting.
Good bye to the time when simple kisses made the hurts all go away.
Good bye to cuddling and sipping hot chocolate curled up together in a comfy chair. Good bye to this home, these toys, these memories being the center of their universe.
In reality, these boxes sit untouched in the closet. They haven't played like that in a long time. Yet somehow keeping them felt like holding back time for a while. Who's foolish enough to try that?
I'm surprised at myself. I just told a woman yesterday how much I loved this stage right now and how I didn't really miss when the kids were younger. They get my jokes now. They make me laugh now. They have original thoughts and ideas and opinions of their own now and I love it. I see each of them reaching out for God and faith and finding it. I'm proud of who they are and what they're becoming.
And honestly, until this moment, didn't pine for earlier days.

But there it is again, the tears welling in my eyes and my heart tearing just a little.

I wish I could tie this all up with a profound quote, Bible verse or life lesson. But the closet is calling and if Brad walks in a finds me typing and crying instead of sorting, it might be a long day.
I know I'll be ok.
I know the tears will stop and my heart will go back to normal and that I'll be happy when my vacuum takes it's new spot.

beautiful

Winding and twisting my old beat up van through the city, I drove as if on auto pilot. The gray streets and monochromatic urban scape left me dull. Heart weary and questioning the future, thoughts bounced around hitting the corners of my brain like it was the concrete sound barrier lining the beltway. A song started to play on the radio. Half listening, the words "You're beautiful. You are made for so much more than all of this." intrigued me. Beautiful was not the first descriptor that came to my mind as I thought of myself or anything around me. As the melody continued, the lyrics gripped my heart and mind. The phrases reverberated...you were made for more than this...more than asphalt roads and concrete walls...more than old vans and new cars...more than the sum of what you do...more than the worries of the future...more than the regrets of the past...more than the pressures of this day...you are treasured. you are sacred. you are His.You're beautiful.
Stirred in spirit the immediate question sprang to mind: For what, then, was I meant?
St. Irenaeus said: "The glory of God is man fully alive, and the life of man is the vision of God." But what does it look like when I'm fully alive? When you're fully alive? When God's glory manifests itself through us? Will we shoot little moonbeams from our fingertips? Will we feel something different? Does it happen once then stay that way all the time or is it rare? Do we always know when we're fully alive?
Pondering my life, there are a few instances when all my senses were heightened, my purpose seemed clear and the promise of eternity permeated my being. Like lazing in the heat of a fully exposed south window on a cold winters day, His glory-His Life radiates from the inside out. It's moments when clarity, peace and a deep sense of rightness rule my being. You'd think those would all be associated with positive, happy feelings. But I'm pretty sure the point isn't the feelings. As I think about those fully alive moments, they're not always particularly good times surrounded with warm fuzzies. Some moments are delightful like Megan's wedding or a friends surprise party just a few weeks ago. But others came in the midst of deep suffering and intense pain during times of great loss. One moment in particular, I wasn't even actually involved but witnessed the Holy Spirit work through someone else in a way plain, clear and powerful yet so intimate that I felt voyeuristic being there. Even though it wasn't pleasant, it was sacred, infused with the Holy.
We're meant for Holy moments. Moments of personal surrender. Moments of a usefulness beyond our ability. Moments in the midst of both the mundane and the spectacular. Moments of the sacred cutting through the secular like a knife through butter. Not always grand or happy or even noticeable. But in those moments God's glory and power seems revealed through His not-so-holy created ones. And we see His beauty and sense our own beauty in ways intangible and at times unimaginable and see that we are treasured...sacred...beautiful.
Psalm 27:4
One thing I ask from the LORD,
this only do I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the LORD
all the days of my life,
to gaze on the beauty of the LORD
and to seek him in his temple.

Will you take a minute and listen to Beautiful by Mercyme?

Insecurity Check.

I did it again. Hitting the reply to all button I voiced only half my opinion and said it in a wishy washy way even though I actually had a strong argument. Why do I do that? Why am I so afraid of offending? Of disagreeing with others? It's ridiculous. Some of it's insecurity. And some of it is genuinely not wanting to put people off in a way that would keep them from God. But really, it's mostly because I'm a relationship person and if relationships aren't ok then nothing feels ok. Take today for example. There's a good chance I'm going to run into someone I know from my past at the cross country meet. The last time I saw her, the reception was chilly at best. It's all I can do to not obsess about seeing her again. Will she ignore me this time? Will she be civil? Why do I care so much? If she doesn't like me she doesn't like me. All I can do is be kind and be myself. I can't control her response any more than I can control the weather so why spend so much brain energy on it?

Arghhh.

That's it. Next time I'm asked for an opinion, I'm giving it in full.

Maybe.

Unless is controversial.

Or I feel like I do today.

And at the meet today?

I will not obsess I will not obsess I will not obsess I will not obsess I will not obsess I will not obsess I will not obsess

Knowing

To know and be known.
I've written on it, prayed about it, and spent countless hours thinking about it. Simultaneously I've both longed for it and pushed it away.
We all want to know someone intimately and with certainty.
And we all want to be known both intimately and with certainty.
To have someone anticipate our words or pick the perfect gift not because we told them but because they know us that well, proves rare and elusive. Even as spouses it's difficult to achieve then maintain that sort of intimacy.

But whether we realize it or not, we desire it and seek it.

I can't help but wonder why.

Why do we care? Especially if we're Christians and believe in an all sufficient God, why do we care if others know us? Isn't the Creator of the Universe knowing us enough?

Apparently not or we wouldn't feel so desperate for human love, companionship and belonging.

Saying it and feeling it are fine, but living "I love you" matters for eternity. It matters because it expresses knowing and being known. It's more than hoping to be known. When you live love for someone they are known. I'm afraid I'm not articulating what I mean very well. I'll have to think some more...

The Long and Winding Road

You can see for miles. Roads stretch out before you with very little to obstruct the view. Over the open prairie, the sky's big and the earth gently heaves and sighs. It's beautiful and I've grown to love it.

On our way to Gavin's Point Dam over the July 4th weekend, we drove over hills and through dales that actually twist and turn so you can't always see where the road leads. I found myself looking down the byways and wondering what was around the bend. One little road, for some reason, seemed magical. It looked lovely and mysterious and like it could only hold treasures.

In my younger years, I'm quite sure I saw my future through those same curious, hopeful eyes; anticipating the best kind of magic. But at some point in my life, I'm not even sure when or how it happened, my view changed. What lay beyond the bend became something I feared. Instead of hopefully trusting that life (or more aptly the Giver of Life) would be full of ups and downs and twists and turns that eventually always lead to someplace lovely, I started believing that danger lurked in the unknown places.

Maybe it's because not knowing what's next makes life not only unpredictable but messy. When Brad's feeling out of control over something in his life, he quotes Steve Martin from Parenthood: "I don't like messy." I don't know if any of us like messy, but at some point we all have to accept that it's part of life and we can either 1) live with it begrudgingly, 2) keep trying to manage and contrive and control and drive everyone-including ourselves- crazy or C) Look beyond the mess and enjoy the journey despite the uncertainty.

Learning to Kneel

Two and a half hours of sheer, unadulterated happiness.

Dancing and singing under the Minnesota night sky with 60,000 others, my heart overflowed. Song after familiar song rang out into the sky and sank deep into my soul. Even in the driving rain*, the spirit remained undiminished and the energy level ramped up. I soaked up every second of my once in a lifetime concert and each time I raised my hands and voice to heaven, the cross on the soaring spire of our unconventional church (aka "the claw") reminded me of even more.

Moment Of Surrender

I tied myself with wire
To let the horses roam free
Playing with the fire
Until the fire played with me

The stone was semi-precious
We were barely conscious
Two souls too smart to be
In the realm of certainty
Even on our wedding day

We set ourselves on fire
Oh God, do not deny her
It’s not if I believe in love
If love believes in me
Oh, believe in me

At the moment of surrender
I folded to my knees
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me

I’ve been in every black hole
At the altar of the dark star
My body’s now a begging bowl
That’s begging to get back, begging to get back
To my heart
To the rhythm of my soul
To the rhythm of my unconsciousness
To the rhythm that yearns
To be released from control

I was punching in the numbers at the ATM machine
I could see in the reflection
A face staring back at me
At the moment of surrender
Of vision over visibility
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me

I was speeding on the subway
Through the stations of the cross
Every eye looking every other way
Counting down ’til the pain would stop

At the moment of surrender
Of vision over visibility
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me

*It rained for over an hour. Not sprinkles. Not gentle summer rain. Pouring, torrential, all clothes including underwear drenched and wringing wet rain. Memorable and awesome.

More than you could ask.

A concert of monumental* proportions takes place in less than 24 hours. For me, it's the concert of a lifetime. And I realized today that I've hardly talked about it and only mentioned it in passing on facebook and in this blog. I think it seems so unbelievable to me that I actually get to go that I haven't wanted to share it for fear of it not happening. I also really didn't want to see and hear people's reactions or have to explain who they are or what their music means to me.
But as I sat on my deck I realized I've been afraid to be excited, afraid to enjoy it, afraid to anticipate. Little by little satan's been eroding my joy of something that's not only a gift from my husband and friend, but a gift from God.


As I sat mulling it over, God brought this verse to mind: Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.
Immeasurably more than I could ask...


Yep, it's gonna be good.




*well, monumental to me ;)

Called to love

It's under "favorites" on my laptop. And when you click on the link on our pc at home and begin typing letters, all the names of pages visited pop up. Caringbridge.org provides free online pages for people struggling with illnesses. Preemies, cancer patients, victims of accidents and those with ongoing health issues share updates and reflections on personalized sites. It's a beautiful, practical way not only to share information, but also for the patients and families to receive support and encouragement as they face their battles. It makes it "easy" to bless others with words and prayers.

But reaching out, supporting the sick and hurting isn't always so easy or convenient. Sometimes because you're afraid. Like the other day when I hugged the young soul who just shared with me their fight against bed bugs in their home. I gave the hug but immediately worried, brain racing can you get bed bugs from a hug? (I don't think so). But regardless of my fear, the hug was necessary. At times, reaching out, meeting needs, and caring for those hurting is difficult because so many suffer in silence. Mental illness, addictions, abuse, wayward children, marital conflicts, and money issues all exhaust and drain those encountering them. But often out of embarrassment, shame, guilt or simply hurt, they don't tell anyone.

There's no Caringbridge for parents struggling with kids making life-altering, dangerous decisions. There's no website (that I know of) for those suffering from depression, bi-polar disorder or other mental illness to share their pain and receive encouragement. People facing financial ruin, lawsuits, addictions or marital issues rarely share their pain publicly. I'm not blaming anyone for this. I've been there and if no one pursues or acts like they care, it's seems easier to deal with the pain alone.

However, Jesus never meant for life to be handled alone. My point is simply that then the only way to build up and encourage these suffering in silence is to be in their lives enough so that they either trust enough to share, or you're close to pick up on cues.

It's not easy to hug the kids with bed bugs or lice. It's not easy to get close to someone hurting; they're sometimes prickly as a self defense. It's not east to love and share someones pain when your own feels overwhelming. But, if you claim to follow Christ, you're called to a life of service to others...a life of loving the unlovable...a life of being close enough to know and see the hurt...a life of non-judgemental unconditional love for those in pain.

Called to love.

Let us touch the dying, the poor, the lonely and the unwanted according to the graces we have received and let us not be ashamed or slow to do the humble work.
~Mother Teresa

Lasting Legacy

"...a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind `brother', the piety that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.
Earnest young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they, thoughtful
or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved. Gifted men found a companion in him. Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true, although `they wouldn't pay'.

To outsiders the...energetic women seemed to rule the house,and so they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy,anxious women always turned in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband and father.

The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls into their father's, and to both parents, who lived and labored so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses
life and outlives death.

~Louisa May Alcott Little Women

I love you Dad and am blessed daily be your influence. Happy Father's Day.

Love, Patty

Storytellers

In no place emotionally to make small talk, I remember sitting in silence.
She didn't seem to care.
Every once in a while she asked me a question and smiled kindly at my brief, barely alive response. As we approached the end of the meal she started telling me her story. My mind racing but my face stolid, I listened.
I heard as she shared her story of addiction, depression, broken relationships and God's healing power experienced in her life.
The memory of her gentle voice but strong words comes back to me as I think about my own story.
At the request of a very worried mutual friend, she came, vulnerable and ready to risk for the sake of helping a struggling soul.
She didn't know me. Yet she spoke with transparency, honesty, authenticity and tenderness. She didn't ask for a response from me or expect anything from me.
And I didn't offer.
Out of a deep love for God, she reached out in obedience expecting nothing. And nothing was what she got. Well, from me at least.
What she didn't know or couldn't anticipate was the profound impact that hour long lunch around a mutual friends table had on me. I sought help and I stopped beating myself up mentally. Those were some of the deepest darkest days of my life, and she brought a glimmer of light into my dark tunnel to show me where to walk next.
She's a customer of mine now. She comes into my shop and we periodically have the opportunity to share joys, sorrows and prayer requests. But I don't think I've ever actually thanked her.
So, dear friend, thank you for being real. Thank you for being vulnerable. Thank you for being honest. Thank you for sharing your life with me when I had nothing to offer in return. God used you. You were His words to me that day.
Is there someone who needs to hear your story? Who needs to see a real person? Risk it--offer without expecting.

Windows

I washed the windows Saturday. I hardly ever wash the windows. Not because I don't want to look out of clean windows, but because our house is old and the combination storms that the previous owner put on are a pain in the neck. Anyway, I washed the windows. And they looked beautiful. Sparkly and clean the sun shined brighter through them. Then, it rained. And it's been raining off and on for the last four days. I didn't think of it at first. Then, Sunday afternoon it dawned on me that surely my clean windows were no longer clean. I checked, and it's true, all my work and broken finger nails and risky ladder climbing was in vain. Every window was splattered with rain drops.
So why do it I bemoaned.
Why spend the time and energy washing the windows if all you get is a few stolen moments of sparkling beauty?
Spiritual life feels like that sometimes. You toil and sweat and sacrifice for a few stolen moments of beauty...
like when you have heart level conversation that clearly makes a difference
like when you're able to help, truly help someone in their need
like when the sunset takes your breath away
or when you sense God's love and know for that moment in earth time He's smiling on you.
This post is rambly and doesn't have a point accept that even though I hate cleaning in general and washing windows specifically, I'll keep doing it if only for those few moments of sparkle.

1994

Honestly, I don't remember 1994. A toddler and an infant filled my days with diapers, midnight feedings, messy kisses, sweet giggles, and lots of firsts. The year blurs into the rest of the decade. But half a world away, for an entire country, 1994 looms like an ominous cloud in history. Beginning in April of 1994, and continuing for almost 100 days, over 500,000 Rwandan's suffered death and persecution at the hands of their former friends and neighbors.
While I tucked my babies in at night, other moms quieted their starving babies for fear of discovery.
While we moved into our home, others escaped theirs in the night.
While I read Good Night Moon to my three year old, recently orphaned Rwandan children huddled in the marshes night after night waiting for rescue.
While I enjoyed the safety, blessing and comfort of a loving husband, women on another continent suffered the cruelty and brutality of merciless men.
While we lived in relative harmony with our neighbors and in our community, villagers in Rwanda terrorized, tortured, and murdered their neighbors.

Reading as we forgive by Catherine Claire Larson, opened my eyes and heart not only to the pain these fellow humans endured during the Rwandan genocide of 1994, but also to the tremendous capacity for humans to forgive the unforgivable. The book relates several true stories of forgiveness between victim and offender. Unbelievable tales of reconciliation that demonstrate that healing for a war torn country is possible, each personal story inspires me to practice true forgiveness in my own life on a daily basis.

I'm thankful for my life and that, for whatever reason, I've been thus far spared the pain these people endured. But I never again want to be so consumed with my own small corner of this planet that I'm completely blind to another country's suffering.

Our Father which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done in earth,
as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts,
as we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil:
For thine is the kingdom,
and the power,
and the glory,
for ever.
Amen.
Jesus prayer in Matthew 6
King James Version

Want to know more? Here's a few websites:

as we forgive

The Umuvumu Tree Project

The United State Holocaust Memorial Museum
Restorative Justice

*Please forgive the strange blogspot induced spacing.

Good Grief

Precious in the sight of the LORD
is the death of his faithful servants. ~Psalm 116:15

The white haired organist played the old hymns. Flowers in shades of pink adorned the chapel. People spoke in hushed tones as they dabbed away tears. Friends and family gathered to say good bye and celebrate life.

It's a scene played out over and over again and yet, when it's your mother, father, brother or friend, it's no longer a common occurance because now...now it's personal.

She lived a long, full life. Sitting in the pew, listening to adoring sons and loving grandchildren, you might think it was a perfect life. But anyone who lives knows there's no such thing even for this lovely woman. Blessed, faith-filled and faithful yes; but not without hurt, tragedy and pain. And yet, through it all, she loved God and her family well. Passing on a legacy of strength, loyalty and trust in her Maker, her funeral honored her story but more importantly pointed everyone in the chapel to the Giver of that legacy.

Several thoughts struck me as I sat in the church during this sacred moment simultaneously mourning and celebrating.

What would she think of her own funeral?
What would my kids say about me when I die?
What would they laugh about?
Would memories spark hurt or anger about me or would love truly cover the multitude of my sins?
Would the funeral be more about me or the One to whom I belonged?

When I ordered flowers for the service, I told my talented florist friend that the most distinguishing trait about the deceased was her faith and trust in God. I couldn't think of hobbies she had or what she loved to do. I could only think of Who she loved (well, that and the fact that she regularly prayed for the Twins--yes, the baseball team--but I didn't want a Twinkies floral arrangment).

What would someone tell a florist about me?
At the graveside, the pastor asked the family to say just one word that described their mom and grandma.

Selfless.

Loving.

Faithful.

When I'm gone, what will those closest say about me? Will they struggle to find appropriate words or will the praises come out fast and furious like they did yesterday for this lovely, dearly loved woman?
What would I want them to say?

What do you want those nearest and dearest to you to say...

Marion R. Solfelt 6.27.1924~5.24.2011

Blank pages

Type a sentence.

Delete the sentence.

Type another.

Delete.

Stare at the screen.

Start typing.

Stop typing.

Stare some more.

Delete everything.

Hit "New Post" button and repeat the process.

Walk away and let another day pass.

A million thoughts run through my mind. None seem to stay long enough to be put into actual ideas. Flitting through my brain like a drunken butterfly roaming from flower to flower they never stay long enough to grow and develop.

Posts about rebelliousness. Posts about cancer. Posts about weariness. Posts about hardships and trials. Posts about beauty. Posts about things that upset me. Posts about my family, my kids, my friends. Happy posts. Hopeful posts. Depressing posts. Post after post after post half completed sitting in my "drafts" folder.

My brain's been thrown into a whirlpool spinning endlessly around.

Unlike writing, avoidance comes easily.
I avoid conflict.
I avoid dairy.
I avoid work.
I avoid people.
I avoid talking. yes...I do...believe it or not....

There's too much. So much of life feels like it can't be shared right now. Not in a blog. And not in person. For so many reasons, right now, at least one major part of my existence remains wholly private.
What do I write about when I can't share the thing closest to my heart and foremost in my mind?

Quite Enough

We Are Loved

David Crowder Band

Velvet black night
Pierced with white
Stars waiting quiet
Wide listening sky

Stillness of air
Life hanging there
Out of despair
Rises a prayer

Can we take in Your light
So we can shine like You?
With all this weariness
Can we shine like You?
With this weariness

O we are loved
We are loved
And it's quite enough that
We are loved

We are loved
We are loved
And it's quite enough that
We are loved

Up to my ankles

"Some people are destined to be deep thinkers. I am not one of these people." ~Jen Lancaster

A few years ago, my sister looked at me and said I'm not deep... I've given up on trying to be or thinking I am.

If you know her, you know she's incredibly well read, intelligent, thoughtful and reflective. In her humility, though, she doesn't share that richness with everyone. I think she's "deep" as opposed to shallow. But I guess that's only measured against my own idea of depth.

The older I get, the more I realize when I naively assumed I was in the deep end of thought I was actually wading in the kiddie pool.

I know I still am. And I'm ok with that. I'm not intelligent enough to have completely original thoughts nor well read enough to grasp what's beyond a backyard pool's worth of ideas nor witty enough to banter with the best.

I'm slowly letting go of trying to impress or measure up to those who are either truly my superiors or those who think they are...slowly embracing my average-ness...slowly learing to enjoy being the happy little stick figure girl splashing in 6 inches of thought.

But sitting around a conference table last week with three Phd's, several Master's holders and a prominent, successful business person was enough to throw me off the deep end. Insecurity and fear gripped my heart and held my tongue captive. And when I did speak (which was near to inaudible) everything that came out of my mouth sounded (at least to my own ears) garbled and incoherent.

I still haven't recovered.

The day after

The second I saw the kitchen I was angry. Not the sighing weary anger but real- from the gut want to commit acts of violence- anger. The remnants of a fun, late night of cards and food were enough to send me over the edge. This is what happens when your children grow up and stay up later than you. Add to that dirty and clean laundry all co-mingling on the floor, last nights dishes and a plugged toilet and it's a recipe for disaster.

Me stomping through the house...
NO one picks up after themselves *bang*
they treat me like a maid *slam*
no respect. I get absolutely zero respect *violently throwing clothes in the general direction of the laundry room*
Room and board. I'm going to start charging room and board *slam slam bang*
I have to go away to WORK now...where I cook and clean and WAIT on OTHER people *yelled as I grab my bag and slam my way out the door*

You get the picture.

Once at work I remember there's no milk. *slam* Oh yeah, nobody is here to hear me.
I make my list and run to get groceries and upon my return, I hit my head getting out of the car. *moan* I put the key in the shop lock and it won't go in.
What the what!?! This just worked-I just unlocked this 20 minutes ago *fuming*
Maybe if I push a little more *snap*
Oh crap *grumbled under my breath as the key breaks off in my hand*
The universe is against me *Tears well up*
I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry *huge lump in my throat*

Tears suppressed, I get in my van and tires squealing head back home for the other keys.

Note for the future: It would be a lot easier to ask for Brad's help if you haven't acted like such a jerk. But I have no choice; so I ask. He grabs his jacket and follows me in his truck (from a distance, mind you, I'm sure fearful of what I may do). Upon arriving back at work I look and hang my head in shame and humiliation; I put the key in the wrong lock...that's why it wouldn't go in and that's why it broke.

User error. My user error. What's wrong with me! I've been opening this door for 6 years *no tears now just more anger*
As Brad pulls up, I hastily tell him the news and retreat into my shop kitchen. I assume he retrieved the broken key, I didn't stick around to find out.

In my kitchen, listening to Beethoven (which, incidentally is good, socially acceptable, appropriate for the work place anger music) I continue slamming and fuming partly wishing someone was around to care that my day's crappy and it's only 7:15 and mostly grateful no one's witnessing my hissy fit.

After I get everything going, I check my emails and facebook and finally this blog. And what do I see? Living on Sunday. What an idiot I am. Why did I ever post that? Now I have to own up to it. Wasn't yesterday Resurrection Sunday? The day we're reminded of the fact that not only did Jesus die for our sins (which should have been enough) but He rose again so that we "may have life and have it to the full".

So far my Monday living was full. Full. Of. Crap.

Legitimate frustration with my family for not picking up after themselves spiraled within seconds to full blown anger, resentment, bitterness and more anger. But I was at work now.

It was a busy day at the shop. 20+ women came in and I was friendly and charming and served them with a smile. None of them would have guessed that I still harbored malicious thoughts towards my own flesh and blood.

I'd love to end this post by telling you that when I got home the kids apologized and I apologized and we all made up and had a big family hug. But the reality is, although I'm letting it go, I'm still a little miffed and trying to get over my pity party.

Will living on Sunday ever be easy?*

*that's a rhetorical question.
**both photos are Lois (Jane Kaczmarek) from Malcolm in the Middle

Living on Sunday.

Both videos are sermon exerpts from Dr. S.M. Lockridge.


It's not just the big things like disease and heartache, betrayal and loss that throw my heart and mind into a tailspin. It's small things like jealousy and envy and discontent.

It's Friday but Sunday's coming.
But why, oh why do we(read me) so often live in Friday, at times completely forgetting about Sunday?
I do. I camp out there, in Jesus death, in the darkness and seeming defeat of Friday and cry out with the Psalmist How long o, Lord? Will you forget us forever?

I stay there...in my frustration, anger and discontent.
But the story didn't end on Friday. And my life doesn't have to be lived on Friday.
I believe I Corinthians 15: “'Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?' The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain."
You don't have to live in the Friday of life...in the jealousy, anger, bitterness and selfishness.

I want to, no matter my circumstances or surroundings, live on Sunday.

Ransomed.

Healed.

Forgiven.

Free.

To live on Sunday for My King.