Yes Jesus is soon to come, Are we ready? Will you will I be able to stand in His presence? Who of us shall be able to stand in that day?
The bible says in Philippians 3:20, 21 that Jesus will come and when He does those who have died in His arms will rise from their graves and then those who are alive walking with Him in obedience to His word will be as well taken up to heaven to be with Jesus forevermore.
but these are those who have chosen the way of their King. What happens upon Jesus’ return to those who reject to live the way God wants them to live? In answer to this question Isaiah states this: By His voice Jesus shall slay those who have chosen to remain in rebellion..
With this in mind why is it that you and I just cannot seem to…
Worn, sadly this poem is the perfect summary of the past few weeks. Tired and worn before the day even begins, all I can think of is the delight of crawling into bed and taking a very long nap. My mind full of task pushes and prods me to work, reminding me of all the things that must be done, but like a car with a drained battery, it is all that I can do to sputter to life for a few moments and crawl a few feet before limping to the side.
It has been an exhausting but amazing few days since I posted Waiting to Make Our Dream Come True. When I wrote that post late Thursday evening, my family and I were digging in for a three long weeks of hoping and praying that our land would finally be cleared. After months of dead ends, unexpected delays, and a seemingly endless round of excuses we had reached the point that we were ready to call it all quits and put our dream land for sale. Confident that by the brick wall we seemed to hit each time that we attempted to get our lot clear, the Lord was telling us to stay where we were.
After a heartfelt round of prayers we finally made the call to the realtor who had found our small slice of heaven on earth that we had been postponing for months. To our great surprise, and relief, instead of jumping at the opportunity to earn a commission, he not only personally offered to find someone to clear the land for us, but had personally met each one at our lot to show them where the markers were and get their quotes.
The first person had given a fairly decent quote and even a small discount if we accepted that day and allowed him to start Monday morning. Nearly giddy from the idea of the land being cleared so soon we were instantly ready to accept even though the price while fair was pushing our already bulging budget. But there was still one more estimate which when it came in over a thousand dollars cheaper than the first was a positive delight to our reeling budget, only we would need to wait about three weeks before the work could begin. But with a tight budget what other choice did we have but to accept the cheaper offer and settle back and hope that at the end of three seemingly endless weeks we would not hear the dreaded words, I have fallen behind so it will have to wait a little longer, and the land would finally be cleared. And that is where that Thursday evening found us, stuck once more in the rut of hoping, praying, and waiting that another delay would not come our way.
Friday morning our minds were one place as we imagined the joy that would hopefully be ours as we finally enjoyed the privilege of a clean lot devoid of a forest of trees. The work of the day moved sluggishly as our minds naturally gravitated to the topic so dear to our hearts. Yet amidst our hopes was the nagging fear that for the sake of our budget we had made the wrong choice, and that at the end of three weeks we would hear the dreaded put off that we circumstances had risen which would require us to wait longer. And that despite our real estate agents kind efforts, we would once again be sitting on the train to nowhere, and our land would have to go for sale.
With our thoughts jumbled and our emotions running every which way focusing at mundane task was nearly impossible. Every thing took a hundred fold longer than what it should as our thoughts and conversations repeatedly returned to the mixed bag of soaring hopes and heart dropping fears. Unable to focus, we decided that it was senseless to keep spinning our wheels at home, but would clear our heads by getting the necessary grocery shopping out of the way, and with a clearer mind could devote the afternoon to working around the house.
After several unexpected delays, that included me mildly injuring my ankle, we arrived home well past lunch time. Our hungry stomachs weary at its delay we were rushing to empty the car and put together a quick meal when the phone rang. My heart racing from a strange confidence as I hobbled over the table, I was already certain I knew who was calling and why. My expectations met I did my best to rush from the family room to the garage where my parents and sister were still bringing in the groceries. My confidence was so certain that I simply handed the phone to my Father and returned to fixing our meal. Certain that our unspoken prayer and that at last we would have a concrete date for when our land would at least be cleared.
But even though I sensed that our prayers had been answered, I was not prepared for the magnitude of the answer. For I had assumed that the second person who had given us the lower of the two estimates had at last settled his schedule and we would finally have a date that we could circle on our calendar and look forward to with complete confidence. With that hope firm in my heart I had not bothered to hang around and listen to the conversation that ensued. So it was with great amazement that a few moments later I listened to my Father as he revealed that we not only had a date, but that thanks to the never failing love of God and the extreme kindness of our real estate agent, a miracle had been worked that not only put us on the schedule for the very next Monday, but would decrease our cost by several hundred more dollars! So that for six hundred dollars less than what it had cost a nearby neighbor to clear one acre, we would have all three of our acres cleared!
The burst of joy and thankfulness that filled our hearts at that moment far outweighed the sorrow of the last few months. As with trembling hearts we thanked the Lord for caring for us so much that he would move upon the heart of our real estate agent to first turn down a chance at commission, then lay aside his work to personally travel to our land so he could assure that we got a fair bid, and then even after we had accepted an offer to quietly work one bid against the other so that we could get an even lower rate.
Even now as I look back at the sudden and wonderful change in circumstance and my tired muscles remember the long, daily drives to watch the trees fall, my eyes tear up with joy as I think of the love of God in bending low to help my humble little family. For there is something about human nature that we do not think it such a big deal that God would help a rich family or one with great prestige, but that the King of the Universe should take His time to help one of limited means and whose name is unknown to the masses somehow still manages to come as some sort of surprise to us. Perhaps it is because we are accustomed upon this earth mankind rush to move heaven and earth moved for the rich, the famous, and the royal, yet without a second thought push off the needs of the quiet, the poor, and the humble, that without meaning to we figure that the Heavenly King would have no time or interest to intervene on our behalf. Yet in spite of our unworthiness and lowly place upon this earth, He had listened to and answered our prayers. And only a four days after writing the article about waiting to make our dreams come true, the very first of several hundred trees fell victoriously to the ground.
Waiting, it is one of the hardest lessons in life to learn, perhaps that is why it seems that most of our life is spent in this frustrating mode. Hard as we may push to avoid this problematic state of unwanted suspension, it seems that some unexpected problem crops us causing one or more of our cherished plans to come to a halt and enter this bleak miasma where like comes to a grinding halt.
It seems that if anyone is need of learning this painful lesson it must be me, for sadly it is in this deplorable state of affairs that one of my newest dreams have fallen. Not that is such a new dream, for bits and pieces of it have been around in some form, but up until now the idea has always been in the background as a nice idea for some future date after my real hopes and goals had been met and I at last had time to relax in the warm glow of having accomplished my grand goals. But once the sad truth at last broke through, that I was not fighting some transient battle with ill health that with a little TLC would vanish into the night never again to reappear, was a lovely dream but not the stark reality, I at last came to the unwanted conclusion that it was time for me to lay down my sword and admit that I was not equipped with the necessary gear of resilient health necessary to slay the giant and claim the castle I had so long desired. But must instead find a new set of dreams that with a little fine tuning could bring the smile back to my face and hope into my frustrated heart.
The seed of this new dream had been planted years earlier as having learned different tidbits about the sad state of the food we put into our bodies, my family and I had at various times kept a small garden. It was never much more than a raised bed of peppers, a bucket of tomatoes, or a few citrus trees, but from this humble start an idea was slowly sprouting, and the dream of growing a garden capable of meeting a fair percentage of my family and my needs.
I recently read an article entitled, “No Fatties”: When Health Care Hurts by Carey Purcell which touched on the biases in care that fat people can face when seeking medical care. As I read the various stories of those whose pain had been ignored, sloughed off as the result of their weight, and sudden, unexplained weight gain being dismissed as nothing more than the result of eating to many burgers, I could not help but recall my own experiences with the medical community that have left me less than thrilled whenever it is time to visit the doctor.
The flurry of emotions raised by this article run strong and deep through my soul like a quiet river that with the slightest rain rises into a ragging torrent. Most days I quietly forget the pain, as I focus my mind upon the daily struggle to keep meaning and purpose in my life along with the battle that comes with living in chronic pain. But there are days that wound rises to the surface and the tears threaten to come rolling down. In order to silence the pin pricks of irritation at being treated as somewhat less than human, I have done the unthinkable in that I have to a great degree shut down the person I once was. I have allowed the battle to alter the course of my life and erase the dream I once cherished.
The change began with simple steps that were almost imperceptible. Little moves such as changing the channel whenever a medical clip or episode of a favorite show came to close to my own experience and threatened to touch a chord I would rather remained silent. Soon I was no longer watching once loved shows like Emergency, Mystery Diagnosis, Quincy ME, programs that had inspired me to hope that one day I might help the suffering and sick too, because to me they had become nothing more than idle tales. Ultimately it progressed to closing the books and shutting down my hopes and dreams of becoming a doctor or at a nurse practitioner.
Even though I had known for a long time that it was coming, the day it finally broke through my thick head that my dream was over, it felt as if my heart had been run over by a mile long bullet train running at full throttle. Tears filled my eyes as I looked down upon the pitiful remnants of the dream that been the driving force of my life since I was five, and finally admitted to myself that like Humpty Dumpty, all the glue in the world would not put it back together again.
I would like to say that when the truth finally knocked its way into my brain, that after a few hours of mourning, I rose from my bed of tears stronger, wiser, more resilient, and with a sweet calmness worthy of emulation. I would like to say that it was such, but sadly for days, weeks, even months I was touchy, moody, and at times only tolerable company as I grieved for the cavernous void in my heart that I had no clue how to ease.
With bitter sorrow I listened to every tidbit of the active world around me. The green eye of envy rising to the surface as I was barraged at every turn by fresh tidbits of my peers success until I dread to hear the phone ring lest it was some loved one sharing news with my Mother that they were certain would bring smiles of delight to our face. News that at other times might have only brought forth a dry smile and a momentary pang of longing that was easily smothered by the abiding hope that one day soon my Mother would triumphantly be able to declare that her daughter had finished premed or graduated from nursing school.
But now that the battle had been conceded, now that I had admitted that my life’s purpose had been defeated by the superior foe of chronic pain and misery, I was like a flimsy dot of a life raft lost at sea. Rising and falling on the storm maddened waves of uncertainty and loneliness and pounded by the beating rains of despair. Like a haunting melody the unforgiving wind declared that I was nothing but a useless blob, a worthless blood sucker sucking the life of my aging parents. With fiendish glee the flashing lightening and earth jarring thunder would announce that my future once so bright and hopeful was doomed to ignominy and failure.
During this bleak time my pain was made more acute as imaginary images of my frightful fate, terrorized my dreams and haunted the most peaceful moments of my days. Like the midnight sectors of Dickens strange Christmas tale, my eyes were tortured by the fearful realization that one day the comforting arms around me would be no more, and that I would be left pale, friendless, and jobless to face a future wandering the streets begging for the stale crumbs of human sympathy.
It seems like I have been meaning to sit down and write a post for months now. I wake up in the middle of the night with my head brimming with things that I long to say, but in the wee hours of the morning who wants to get out of bed? So I do the smart thing and dig deeper into the sheets hoping to fall back to sleep again. Comforting myself with the promise that I will get around to it first thing in the morning. But when morning lights dutifully rouses me from my bed, and I drag my achy bones over to the sofa and pull up my laptop to write, the fatigue and pain makes it so easy to push away my computer and curl up in a ball saying to myself, “A few minutes rest and I will feel more refreshed. After all, there is plenty of time before lunch.”
But of course that little rest soon turns into an hour or two and before I know what has happened it is time to reluctantly drag myself off of the sofa and help my parents make lunch or help with some other small chore around the house. But of course I am not disappointed because the nourishment that lunch has to offer is sure to brighten my thoughts and give my words more force.
But again, before I know what has happened I am awash in a wave of unwanted fatigue that leaves me to dull whited and sleepy to focus on the task at hand. My eyes feel like two heavy weights falling with great force to the earth, and seem to require superhuman effort to keep open. A little nap after a night of painful tossing and turning sings its siren song to my worn bones and before I knew what was happening, I was sound asleep.
On the days that I was able to wake up refreshed from my short spurt in dreamland, I have often tried to sit down at my laptop and write, but my attention was easily swayed by the enormous list of backlogged chores from the all to common days when migraines, fatigue, nausea, and a sea of other miseries that accompanies autoimmune disorders had won the battle for my attention. And it was so easy to say, “It’s still early, there is plenty to time before bed.” Or so it always seemed, because like a slippery lion hunting its prey, bedtime seemed to leap out of the bushes at the most unexpected moment leaving me to declare, “Oh well, tomorrow is another day.”
Before I knew it, one tomorrow had turned into two, then three, four, five, ten, twenty, until I had lost count of how many times I had given into procrastination enchanting song of, don’t worry, if you don’t feel like doing it right now because waiting a few minutes will allow you more time to think about what you plan to say, or don’t worry if you don’t feel well enough to do it right now because you will feel better tomorrow and will be able to do a much better job.
What I find so amazing about it as I sit down to write this post, is that at first I felt bad, about putting off the task, but as I listened to procrastination’s sweet lullaby, I began to rejoice in the relief that there was some better time, some wiser moment to do what I really wanted to do today. I began not think of reasons to do, but reasons to wait for that better season that never quite seemed to materialize but was always around the corner.
Granted, there were some good reasons why I was putting things off. For the past few weeks I have been rather ill. My stomach has been so unsettled that the doctor ordered medicine to help ensure that its contents stayed in its proper place. And some of those mornings and afternoons I spent on the sofa were spent curled up in near tears for the pain I was in. Yet sadly I know that there were some days when it might have taken some effort but with the help of a few pillows to raise me up I could have pulled up my laptop and wrote a few lines, taken a break, and then wrote a little more.
Unfortunately procrastination is a funny master. At first there good reason to delay, such as taking a moment to synthesize ones thought until it crystallized into a more clear and concise form, or to wait until my migraine medicine has worked enough to allow my eyes to endure the glare of the screen. But while it might start with good reason, if this dreadful monster is given too much exercise it quickly morphs into a monster most dreadful. One that if were are not careful has the power to conquer us and forever alter the course of our lives.
I thought that since my iron deficiency anemia has once again raised its ugly head, draining my energy, causing my heart to race, and leaving me in a mental fog, that I would share this little poem inspired by my battle with chronic health issues.
Tired, Tired, I Feel so Tired
Tired so tired!
My body feels so tired.
Like a weary shorn out rag I walk around in a worn out daze.
My hallow body feels ancient and weighted down from some unseen place deep within;
As if an indivisible foe is sucking the energy from deep within.
I struggle to stay focused.
I desperately push on,
But my endurance is gone.
Even my hunger is diminished,
As my empty stomach trembles at the wearisome
and draining thought of food.
Oh who would believe that an invisible bug could cut a grown being down so completely?
Could bring them crawling to their knees.
That a microscopic organism could invade a body composed of billions of cells,
And bring it halting to the ground.
Robbing the body of its vital fluid and nutrition,
Stealing the vibrant glowing spring from its once happy free flowing step,
And freezing the elastic stretch that gives life and freedom to the body.
Such a miniscule molecule,
But the power to debilitate is locked so cunningly and curiously within.
The power to slow down expansion,
The power to make humanity so ill,
The power to destroy instead of uplift,
The power to devastate and destroy nations,
The power to kill both big and small.
What a little molecule,
What a little virus.
So insignificantly microscopic,
Yet it can hold the fate of many under its whimsical rollercoaster control.
So the sad story goes with sin.
It is just a miniscule microscopic sin.
It is just a wee small fraction of a dot to hold onto.
It cannot possibly kill or maim.
It is too small to do any real harm.
You cannot possibly compare it to any of the real killers like stroke and heart disease.
Mine is just a small unnoticeable little cherished blot that it cannot possibly lay down roots and smother my heart.
Why I have it so well stuffed and tamed that it cannot go anywhere.
It is so confined into that back corner that it cannot possibly reproduce and do anyone or anybody any harm.
How can you claim that one little sin such as mine is so wrong?
How can one little miniscule germ kill hundreds,
How can one virus bring one metropolis halting with heart pounding fear to its knees?
One little sin,
One little stain,
One little stubborn willfully cherished corner,
And some day the day may come when just like an out of control mutant toxic virus it will flourish and spread,
Overflowing and choking out the fresh healthy cells that stand between it and sunshine,
Killing off all the noble and pure desires of the heart.
Destroying your longings to live a pure and righteous life.
But even if that day should never come.
One longingly cherished sin,
What is the price?
What is the cost?
At whose ultimate expense will the price be paid?
How many will see and walk away?
How many will see and stumble?
How many will see and follow your example?
When the day of reckoning comes will you want to turn and walk away?
Will you finally want to part company with it then?
If you have not begun the struggle now,
Will you suddenly be ready just because Jesus has shown up in the clouds of glory?
Or will you find that you have paid the ultimate price for living with and flittering with a deadly virus?
Whenever I hear this hymn I am transported back to my childhood. It is Friday evening, the sun is setting, and I am sitting on my Grandparents sofa. My Great-grandmother is sitting on the lazy boy rocker. Her hair is white as snow and her memory is in the first stages of fading away. My Grandmother is sitting to her right on a wooden rocker and my Grandfather is on the sofa nearest to the light.
With hymn books in hand we have gathered in the small living room to join together in worship to welcome the Sabbath. The fact that my Father, sister, and I barely know a word of Spanish does not matter, because unlike my Great-Grandmother and Grandfather, my Grandmother can only speak a little bit of English.
Our ability to communicate with her without the aid of my Mother or Grandfather to translate is limited. Making it impossible to sit down and freely speak with her as we would like. But for that one moment, as we sat down for worship and lifted our voices in song the communication gap was gone.
It is true that we did not understand all words, but that did not matter because we knew that it was hymn of praise to God. And oh what a glorious moment as we lifted our voices. For that brief moment the language barrier seemed to fade as our voice united in praise to God and by faith our hearts were carried to that glorious day when Jesus would return and at last we would be free to sit and talk. The language barrier would be no more, and the words that we had spent a lifetime longing to share would at last be able to freely flow.
As I listen to the words of Cantad algres al Senor, my heart beats with delight as I remember those precious few evenings. With cloudy eyes I think back to the joy that filled my heart and how I miss those Friday nights. For sadly those evenings are no more as both my Great-Grandmother and my Grandfather now lay quietly in the tomb waiting for that longed for day when Jesus shall call them forth to take part in that glorious family reunion wherwe shall once again lift up our voices to sing praises to our King.
When I was in high school, one of my favorite weekend activities was to play Monopoly with my Mother. If it were not for homework and household chores my Mother and I would have played the game all day. We loved going round after round, hoping and waiting for all the properties to brought up so we could make our exchanges and build our hotels.
As I look back on those enjoyable mother/daughter afternoons, I remember that despite nearly always loosing the game, I would have such fun. But there was always a low spot (not counting my nearly perfect record of landing on Park Place or Board Walk after it was brought), that made my heart tremble. And that was landing on the community property space. There were so many dangerous cards to chose from such as pay poor tax, pay school tax, or the dreaded hotel and homes tax.
But one bright spot to the day was the unexpected joy of lifting up the card and discovering that I had chosen the get out of jail free card. That wonderful card which would allow me to get of one jam without having to pay a penalty and having to fork out 50 dollars that I did not have.
As I think about it now, I imagine that to some people it must appear like I or any other chronically ill person has managed to land on community property and by the luck of the draw pull out this special card. This wonderful card that allows us at any moment to get out of work, chores, and any other unpleasant life duty. To many it may seem like if something is too boring, to demanding, to exhausting, dirty, disgusting, stressing, etc we get to pull this little ace from out of sleeves and declare that we are now privileged to get out of work and got and do the things that we really want to do.