How God's Knees Got Dirty

I’m good with kids. Kids usually like me.  People assume I’m good with kids because I really like kids, but those people are wrong. The reason kids like me is because I meet them on their level. I physically get down on the floor and look into their eyes. I talk about what they want to talk about. I ask about what they are interested in. Just like adults, kids like to talk about their interests. If you are willing to get down on a kid’s level and talk about princesses, dragons, or whatever is cool to them, they will like you. That is my secret. Use it well.

This secret wasn’t original with me. I learned it from God - because God sent Jesus down to our level. Jesus got down on the floor to learn what we care about. Jesus was God reaching down to us. God got on our level by becoming human.

God created a beautiful world for us. God, the ultimate promise-keeper, told us he loved us. That, in and of itself, should have been enough to ensure our dedication to our God, to His ways, and to His plan for us.  It wasn’t.

Have you ever known a wife who complains that her husband never tells her he loves her?  When you talk to her husband, his response might be, “I told her that once and I haven’t told her my feelings for her have changed, so she should know that I love her.” That husband believes his word is a solid promise, and there is no need to repeat it. It may be true that we should be able to believe a statement forever, but we don’t usually work that way. Wives want to hear how much their husbands love them, and they want to hear it on a regular basis. It isn’t that she didn’t believe her husband that one time he told her, it’s just that as the world beats her down, she wants her man to reassure her of his love.  She wants to be reminded that she is important.

We are that way with God. He told us he loved us. Like a wife, we believed until we didn’t. The evil one is good at putting doubts in our mind. He is good at pointing out what we lack as a person and what our relationships lack. God was so much bigger than Adam and Eve. He was not like them. They doubted his goodness, his kindness, and his ability to relate to them. Satan convinced Adam and Eve that God was holding out on them and that they should want to be like God themselves. We all know that the schemes of the enemy did work and Adam and Eve sinned as a result of their desire to become like God.

(Side rant: poor Adam and Eve. They get to be labeled as the wreckers of everything good for all time. I think it’s really unfair. If it had been Adam and Marlys, things would have gone the same way. Go ahead and fill in your own name as well. We all would have screwed this thing up eventually.  Also, we don’t really know how long they lived in the garden!  They could have done it right for years!  They might have lived a thousand years in the garden, obeying and loving life.  We focus the story on the one bad move they made, but the Bible doesn’t tell us how long they did it right. That was before death existed. My theory is that they only started counting the years that passed after the fall, which makes it impossible to know how long they were in the garden pre-sin.  I’m just sayin’ - give A and E a little slack, you sinner, you! BTW, I’m no biblical scholar, so if you want to tell me why my argument here is lame, that’s fine, but that isn’t really my point… this is just a side rant.)

So, we didn’t believe God.  We wanted someone who looked like us and acted like us. We wanted someone we could understand. We wanted someone we could relate to. We couldn’t relate to the perfectness and bigness of God. We are a stupid race.

God loves us. He wants us to really understand that. He wants us to be with him, to relate to Him, to know him. He knew things didn’t work in the garden, so he made a plan: he got down on the floor with us. He talked about the silly things we wanted to talk about. He explained things to us on a child’s level. He opened a new door for us to understand His love for us.  He put skin on and dirtied His knees so I could get it, remember it, and hold on to it. He LOVES me.

I still forget sometimes. I bet you do, too.  When I start to forget, I try to picture the cross. I try to picture God... with skin on. I try to remember his dirty knees… from getting down on my level to play with me.

Thanks, God, for getting down on my level and telling me “I love you” for the trillionth time.

Coff-tastrophe

This morning I had a coffee catastrophe. I guess you could call it a coff-tastrophe.

It is almost time for a new bag of filters. When the filters are running low and the bag is nearly empty, the filters lose their pleats. They lose their ability to stand firm. The end-of-the-bag filters are weak (poor filters). I used one such weak filter this morning. It ended badly.

When the weak filter lost its ability to stand firm against the gush of water, it folded. It fell. It lost the battle in the war to keep the grains out of the coffee pot while letting the flow of coffee carry on. This was a serious breach in the battle for coffee without grains. The grains gained access to the entrance into the pot.

The grains love the idea of being in the pot. Their life is lived in only a moment when the water passes through, and then they are discarded. The grains are unappreciated. The water is savored.

The grains are the important part of the coffee making process!  Without them there is only water!  The brown goodness of coffee, the flavor, the essence of the coffee is found in the grains. When the grains saw their chance, they made their way to the pot. The coffee maker is not equipped to deal with a buildup of grains in the small exit hole for the filter basket. The hole plugged up. The basket filled up.  The water had no way to get into the pot with the hole plugged with grains. The remaining grains in the basket floated up as the water rose. Eventually the water exceeded the height of the basket and the coffee mixture ran out all over the coffee pot, the coffee maker, the counter, and the floor. This in itself wouldn’t seem like a catastrophe if it had happened, say, after I had had my coffee. It happened before I had my coffee, which automatically upgraded the event to a catastrophe.

Coffee is the thing that helps me get to the place where I can deal with various catastrophes. A pre-coffee catastrophe makes dealing with a catastrophe seem much worse. MUCH worse. I have to be awake and coffeed before I can deal with the things that don’t go well in my day. It isn’t even about the caffeine. I like to be good and awake before I have to deal with anything stressful (it is a tiny bit about the caffeine). I like to wake up slowly with my hot coffee by my side (it is a little about the caffeine). I have my routine in the morning. I like to stick to it. It helps me get ready for life. I get up, I get my coffee made, I drink my coffee while I sit at the computer and read.  It is a nice and gentle way to wake up (it is somewhat about the caffeine).

I love the warmth of coffee. I love the taste of coffee after I’ve added just the right stuff. I love the way it feels to hold the cup in my hand. I love how it transforms me from groggy/unaware/uninterested in life, to awake/alive/excited about my day (okay, it is about the caffeine).

When something goes wrong in my coffee routine, I feel like my day is a bit off.

Thankfully, today before the grains made their assault on the filter basket exit, some coffee made it into the pot unhindered. I was able to rescue a small cup of coffee. I will have to avoid the grains at the bottom of the cup, do a lot of cleaning, and make a new pot of coffee - but for now, I am drinking coffee... ahhhhhhhh.

There is still hope for this coff-tastrophic day.

If You Really Knew Me, You Would Hate Me.

“If you really knew me, you would hate me.”

I didn’t believe that statement about myself for a really long time. People usually like me. I definitely annoy some people (BTW, I’m not asking for people who know me to give examples of ways I’m unlikable), but usually I like people, and they like me.

I’m one of those seemingly “happy people.” I am outgoing and nice.  All that said, when Paul labels himself as the “worst of sinners” (1 Tim 1:15), I didn’t feel on par with him. When people would say things like, “you wouldn’t like the real me,”  I didn’t relate. I really wasn’t harboring any hatred or murderous thoughts. I wasn’t stealing or running a drug business on the side. I wasn’t even all that jealous of what you had.  I did get that I was a sinner and needed a savior but I didn’t really believe I was capable of EVERY sin.  But that was then. This is now. I’ve lived longer. I’ve been tempted in more ways. I’ve been hurt. I’ve been the target for someone else’s arrows and I have sent my own arrows flying.

Suffering is a good teacher, but it also releases what is really inside you.  I have learned so much through the suffering I have experienced in my life. I can relate to so many more people because of it. I can also recognize there are many dark places in me. I really didn’t think I was capable of every sin, but I now see that I am. This realization has the potential to really knock me down and make me depressed - but it gives me freedom.

If I believe I can save myself by being good, I’m missing out on the freedom that Christ brings.  I know I can’t save myself. I know I need Christ to give me that “ticket” into heaven, but I often think I can control myself. I can’t even do that.  I need the power of Christ to do the simplest things.  I need Christ to save me from greed, envy, lust, sloth, wrath, pride, gluttony, and even the desire to murder.

If you knew the darkest parts of me, you would hate me. I am capable of every sin.

Here is the scary part: so are you. You too, are capable of every sin.

If we were put into the perfectly right circumstances (or perfectly wrong), we could do things we do not believe we are capable of.  We, like Paul, are capable of being the “worst of sinners”.

There are two really cool things about realizing what a wretch I am. First, it gives me more of an understanding of what Jesus really did for me. He didn’t just die for a likable girl who sometimes sins a little bit. He died for me, the worst of sinners. Second, if I am such a degenerate, it should be easier for me to forgive those who sin against me. I know how bad I am, so when others turn out to be bad too, it shouldn’t surprise me.  If a perfect Jesus can forgive my sinful heart, then in my imperfectness, I should be able to forgive others their sins against me.

If you really knew me, you would hate me. I am thankful that you can get to know the Christ in me instead.

How Running Made Me Famous

I ran this morning. No, I will not tell you where I was running.

That is no unusual thing in and of itself, but today it was unusual. Have you ever seen a car with a tall tower disco-ball-looking-thing on top?  Only, instead of delightful, small mirrors that make you wanna dance,  there is a large mass of cameras where the mirrors should be.  It is an unusual site (unless of course you work for Google Maps… and then I suppose it is a normal site for you). The disco truck went by me, and I thought, “What the heck was that?” (Yes, even in my own head I don’t use the real cuss word... I was raised that way).  It dawned on me what I was seeing (largely due to the fact that the vehicle has “Google Maps” written on it in large letters). Then it hit me: I’m finally famous!  My picture will be on the web!  That glee was followed seconds later by: Oh, no...  I’m running! The picture I want to be on the web is not one of me running.

Uh, no, I will not tell you where I was running.

Let’s talk a little bit about “appropriate dress.”  I dress very differently in different situations. I choose attire according to the weather, the activity, the audience, the venue, the type of people who will be attending, and - of course - my mood.
 
I live in Texas. Only two words sum up the weather here: it’s HOT. Hot weather demands less clothing.  During a Texas summer, every man, woman, and  child has to make that all-important decision as to what they think is just enough clothing to cover all the important bits and still remain as cool as possible.  While this delicate balance skews one way for church or an outing with friends, it looks completely different for, say, swimming. I don’t want to go out to eat in my swimsuit, but I also don’t want to swim in my jeans, t-shirt, and shoes. I have actually done that. I took an advanced swimming class that required it.

Swimming with clothes on isn’t fun. It feels like you have someone (say, a younger, smaller sibling) hanging on you, pulling you down, trying to kill you. I don’t have any younger siblings who want to kill me (or any younger siblings at all) so I’m just using my imagination here. But I digress…I realize that when I run, I am not in my own bedroom.  I know that there will be people around who will see me.  I know that when I am in the great outdoors, it is a distinct possibility that someone I know will see me… but let’s face it, when I am running in my own neighborhood, I am only going to see a few people, and most of them are walking dogs or exercising – they are also out in the heat and are completely able to relate to the nature of Texas weather. They feel my pain and I, theirs; no judgment. The people who use Google Maps (aka: THE WORLD) will not have that same level of camaraderie with me. Removing me from my actual environment and putting me in a whole new environment (the internet - where anyone can see me) troubles me deeply.

No, I still will not tell you where I was running. Stop asking.

Okay, so now you are wondering what I was wearing.  I believe “appropriate dress” for running includes a sports bra, a tank top, and running shorts.  No, I do not run in just a sports bra and shorts… kudos to you who do…. I don’t have the stomach for it (meaning that I don’t have a shapely enough stomach to show in public, but the other interpretation really works here too).  I would not wear a running tank top and running shorts to lunch with friends or to the dentist.  I wouldn’t wear them to a business meeting (actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever been to a business meeting).  When I left this morning, I wasn’t headed to any of those things… I was headed out to run.

This isn’t just about the outfit. It’s about the whole running look. I sweat. A LOT (see also: it’s HOT!). I wear a headband to keep my soon-to-be-sweat-soaked hair out of my face. I’m also a pale kind of gal, and when I get hot my face turns red.  I mean RED. When people see me, they think I’m dying. Concerned Samaritan types bring me bottles of water, sure I’m about to collapse.  It’s not pretty, but this is just the way I look when I get hot.

This “look” is not the look I want to broadcast to the wide world.

I guess my point is that, while I swim in a swimsuit and not a jogging suit (don’t laugh, I know people who do - remember, I home school), I wouldn’t want a picture of me in a swimsuit on the internet for all to see…

And, no, I will not tell you where I was running, stop asking. Begging does not become you.