Namaste

I got my feelings hurt at therapy last week.

Talking about my recent disconnect in my relationship with God, just not feeling as close to Him as I had several months ago; my therapist (not one to mince words) basically told me that I couldn’t blame God for the poor choices I have made.  It’s not His fault; it’s my fault.

Well, that is true.  But ouch.

I went home quite disturbed, and the next day I had this dream:

There were children on a stage, rehearing for a play.  I was asked to transcribe what they were saying.  I went up on the stage, too.  In the back, on stage right, at a small table, sat my VAIO.  I walked over to it, but there was a small rock, a jack-rock, sitting on my computer.  I brushed the rock off, sat down, opened my computer, and began to type what the children were saying.

 Suddenly, from stage left, a man came up on the stage from the audience.  He was not part of the play.  He walked across the stage, stopped near me, bent over, picked up the rock that I had brushed off earlier, and flung it at me like you would skip a rock.  He hit me right in the throat, and I couldn’t breathe for a moment.  The rock dropped from my throat into my hand.  Meanwhile, he continued walking away and began going down the stairs off the stage.

I tried to yell at him, but I couldn’t.  I cleared my throat and tried to yell at him again:  “You just hit me with that!” I yelled.  (And also actually yelled it in real life, too!)  The man turned around and looked at me.  It was my therapist.  He said, “Those children could have stumbled on that rock.  It’s your rock to hold.”

I realized that what I had done was dangerous, that I could have injured someone.  I was hurt and angry.  I looked down at the rock, and wondered what to do with it.

Over breakfast, I contemplated the meaning of the dream.  Obviously, having the rock thrown at me was similar to the way I felt during my session.  But what was the rock?  At first I thought it was symbolic of my acceptance of my responsibility, no longer blaming God.  But then, I couldn’t figure out how that would make the children stumble. So I thought some more.  What had I cast aside that I should be holding?

No time for further contemplation—it was Carina’s birthday, and still a school day.  Rush to art classes, then to our special restaurant for tea with the grandmothers.

After lunch, Carina and I wandered around in the gift shop.  She went around the corner, and I heard her say, “Hey Mom, look!  Rocks! (Sarcastically)” I went over to where she was, and there was a container of rocks with inspirational words on them, and I thought, “Hmmm….”  So I looked at them, and there was one rock that looked like a jack-rock.  It was upside-down, so I picked it up to see the word on it, and it said “Namaste.”  Never easy with me.  It couldn’t just say “Faith” or “Love.”  So I pulled out my Droid and looked it up; the Wikipedia definition was “I bow to you,” which I found interesting enough to explore further, so I bought the rock.

I went home, and did some research on the word.  It’s a composite Sanskrit word, the first part; “na-ma,” literally translates as “not mine.”  The second part comes from the word “te,” which means “you.” “Nama” (not mine) signifies that I am not my own, but I belong to Another.  “Te” tells to whom I belong.  Thus “Namaste” means to submit to another, with complete humility; a surrender of self in order to become more like the God to which you are submitting.

*Note* Namaste is also a greeting, a “hello” and “goodbye” that has a lovely meaning.  When said to another person, it means, “I recognize the image of God within you, and I honor you because of it.”             

   

Namaste—I completely give myself, I surrender my whole being, keeping nothing back, no questions or arguments, in complete humility and submission; and through the emptying of self I will find myself full and overflowing with God.

So here I am, sitting with my Namaste rock.  Thinking back to my dream.  And my therapy session.

Because I could not understand the nature of God, I assumed the worst, distrusted Him, and refused to invite Him to participate in my healing.  I chose self over Namaste.  I refused to bow.

The unbearable problem is the one I try to bear on my own.  The unfaithful god is the one I create in my head.  The love I am missing is the love I fail to look up and see.

And the children in the dream?  I have been given a deep desire to help others who have been through experiences like mine.  But if I am holding a grudge against God, I will cause the “children” to stumble.

I desire to live a life of perpetual submission; daily, hourly, even by the moment, giving over thoughts, desires, worries, confusions, pain.  And not just giving over, but giving back; thanksgiving, praise, adoration, acceptance—for what is, was, and what is to come.  Knowing all the time that the giving will be so greatly overshadowed by the receiving that I will be showered with grace, and overwhelmed by the merciful love of my Father.

Namaste.  I can’t decide if it’s hard or easy.

thirteen

My daughter turns every activity into an adventure.

Yesterday, we made meatloaf together.  Can you think of anything more mundane than meatloaf?  Well, not with Carina in the kitchen.  Instead of simple loaves, she was molding and creating cows, anteaters, and hippos.  Play-doh for adults.

 In the mornings as she crosses the yard to feed the horses, I catch an occasional view of her skipping.  Or picking dandelions.  In January.  She notices things like that.  The way the crows take wing as she passes, and I see beautiful sketches of her views later in the day.

A simple trip to the bookstore can turn into a side-splitting unabashed frolic in a “hamster ball” with Carina.  And you never know when you’re going to have to answer the “How weird does this face look?” question.  Or like the question of the day today:  “How many pretzels do you think I can hold in my mouth like this and still talk?”

Carina and I have special moments together, too.  Her “slow-motion, real-time” greetings take my breath away.  We favor the same songs, playing them loud and singing them even louder.  Sometimes we just do the same random, strange thing at the same time—and have no doubts that we are indeed related.

My baby turns into a teenager in exactly one week.  She has salivated over this day for so very long.  I rejoice for her; it is, after all, the natural progression of life and I am so glad that my daughter has apparently thrived even through all my craziness.

I love to see her tender heart, while mine wears a suit of armor.  I see in her what I love the most about me, and it makes me want to strip the protection off, show my real self without shame, and glory in the body and life that my Creator has chosen to gift to me.  But for now, I bask in the precious, precious gift of my daughter.

looking for a job

“But as for me, I know that my Redeemer lives, and he will stand upon the earth at last.  And after my body has decayed, yet in my body I will see God!”

Do you know who said this? 

I came across this verse this week as I was reading my Bible.  I’m not one to make New Year’s resolutions, but I happened to make a commitment that coincided with the New Year to read through the Bible in a year.  And of course, there’s an app for that…so I signed up to read the Bible chronologically.

After reading a few chapters in Genesis, the app sent me off to Job, where I discovered this little gem of a verse.  Not that I haven’t been aware of that quote; I sing songs related to it (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7Pw0Gyc9d0) .  But somehow I have missed or forgotten that Job said it.  

And what does he mean?  He talks of needing a mediator, an intercessor to speak on his behalf before God.  He despairs of appearing before the Almighty.  He talks of God persecuting him.  And then…he says these amazing words!

Redeemer—in the Old Testament Hebrew, the word ga’al means “nearest relative who is charged with the duty of restoring the rights of another and avenging his wrongs.”  It makes me wonder how much of God’s plan was understood by Job.  He clearly understood the need for sacrifices to atone for sins.  He struggled with the religious view that “good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people.”  He questioned God, liked the greatest of men (See Matt. 11:1-11).  But in the midst of all his pain and suffering, the likes of which most of us will never experience, he found solace in his Redeemer.  The Redeemer that was yet to come.  Not for a REALLY LONG time.

Living in a fast-food culture, we come to expect results immediately.  Sixteen months of therapy seems like forever.  Shoot, I’m currently waiting sixteen hours for an antibiotic because of some mix-up at the pharmacy, and I’m disturbed about that.  I want to be well NOW, both mentally and physically.  Hurry, hurry, hurry.

But I have been sidelined, exhausted, spending my days in bed.  I’ve been listening to podcasts of sermons to occupy my mind.  Ironically, I downloaded a series of sermons from NewSpring Church (http://newspring.cc/watchandlisten/) about the life of Job.  Job has surrounded me.  But in a new way.  Not in a he-suffered-so-you-should-suck-it-up way.  But in a God-is-there-and-nothing-happens-without-His-permission sort of way.  Interesting to remember that when evil occurs, it happens because Satan had to ask God for permission to do it first.  So God is indeed culpable for evil in his permissiveness.  But in His omniscience, He also can see the Good that can come out of evil IF we submit to His will.

Ahh, submission.  Back to this rebellious heart of mine.

Puppy Sex (got your attention)

I am upstairs in the master bathroom, bent over the bathtub, scrubbing the jets with a toothbrush.  Suddenly, I feel something unusual at my feet.  I turn to look, and I find Charlie, my six-month-old puppy, gleefully practicing his newly-discovered puberty on my tennis shoe.  Yes, that’s right, my dog is humping my shoe.

I make a mental note:  “Call the vet tomorrow and make an appointment to get this dog neutered.”  I shove Charlie off my foot, and go back to toothbrushing my tub.  Not to be deterred, Charlie bounds back and mounts my New Balances with ease.  I shove him off again, and he slides across the tile floor with the splay-legged grace of a puppy. 

Now he thinks it’s a game, and he comes running up to my shoe with a happy bark.  I sit back on my heels with a sigh, put down the toothbrush, and do a little rough-and-tumble puppy play.  Charlie forgets about foreplay and begins jumping and rolling around, loving every minute of attention that he gets.  I forget about my toothbrush and enjoy living in the moment, giving  affection to my sweet puppy.

So what’s the point here?  Well, you have to read between the lines.  I am in the bathroom, cleaning the tub for the fourth time.  I have spent hours, probably four or five, cleaning the bathroom today.  I am stuck in an OCD cleaning ritual, and I’m not too happy about it.  I’m struggling to maintain a positive self-image, to not berate myself for returning to the tub.

Then, suddenly, as a distraction, God sends (of all things) a randy puppy into the bathroom.  I am near tears.  I don’t want to clean the tub again.  But the compulsion is too strong.  Until I meet something with a stronger compulsion:  Charlie.  The thought crosses my mind—how many times have I turned my husband on while cleaning this tub?  I never thought it would work on dogs, too!  I have to laugh.

Father blesses us in such creative and unusual ways.  Finding the blessing in the middle of the mess is often the difficult part.  That’s where I’ve been recently.   Discovering unpleasant memories.  Fighting old, unhealthy habits.  But I read this today: 

…sometimes I think of that story in the Old Testament….when God gave King Hezekiah fifteen more years of life?  Because he prayed for it?  But if Hezekiah had died when God first intended, Manasseh would never have been born.  And what does the Bible say about Manasseh?  Something to the effect that Manasseh had led the Israelites to do even more evil than all the heathen nations around Israel.  Think of all the evil that would have been avoided if Hezekiah had died earlier, before Manasseh was born….Just that maybe…maybe you don’t want to change the story, because you don’t know what a different ending holds….There’s a reason I am not writing the story and God is.  He knows how it all works out, where it all leads, what it all means.  I don’t.

                                                                                       -Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts

I’m caught up in an OCD cleaning ritual avoiding memories that I don’t want to think about.  But what if I was writing the story?  Of course I would write these memories out.  Of course, I would make my life a Cinderella story.  But what disaster would I inadvertently create?  Would someone else be hurt instead?  Someone who didn’t have the support and help that I have?  Would I be willing to give my pain up if I knew someone else would feel it instead?  No.

So I clean my tub knowing that my Father will give me the strength to fight this.  I take joy in the intermissions of pleasure given to me, and I wait with anticipation for the day when He chooses to take this pain and crush it beneath His awesome feet.

boundless optimism

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I told my daughter yesterday, and was met with this response:  “But that’s where my hopes are supposed to be!”

If you’re looking for a little holiday spirit, come feast at the Colvin household.  My daughter has a glut of enthusiasm and it is spreading.  Even her Grinch-y aunt got into the spirit through holiday emails between them.  You can’t help but love Christmas when you are near Carina.

 How can I continue to cultivate that thrill and joy that Carina has for the birth of Jesus?  Because for her, the thrill is so much more about giving than receiving.  She has worked hard to save money to give to the orphanage that her cousin came from as a special Christmas present, and didn’t think she would make her goal until she received Christmas money from her grandparents.   Her first response at receiving that money was to enthusiastically tell me that she could now give her goal of $365 to Sadzi’s orphanage.

Carina optimistically proposed that she would give a dollar for each day of the year to her cousin’s orphanage, even though she had no way of earning money and only an allowance of $12 a month.  She made this proposal in the fall after I had read Crazy Love by Francis Chan, and challenged the family to do more, stretch themselves.

Since then, she has pinched pennies, saved every dollar given to her, pocketed away birthday money, worked for her father, and even made bets (dubious money-making, I know) with her father, which she has won.  She has given up several purchases that she really wanted, to give to this cause instead.

Now, her brother has saved nearly double that amount without batting an eye, but he has a fairly successful business building and repairing computers while Carina’s talents are as yet somewhat unmarketable.  So I find her sacrifices so much more poignant.  She wants a ten dollar book, but has waited two months, hoping to get it for Christmas instead, putting the money in her orphanage fund.

She believes that God will provide, and He did.  He made a way for her to make her goal.  And that book she really wants?  It’s under the tree.  God cares about twelve-year-old girls and their hopes and wishes.  He cares about thirty-nine year-old mothers who want their baby girls to succeed without intervening.  He cares about all of us enough to put his son in the middle of our mess, with boundless optimism.

God sees in you and me what we don’t see.  He sees that special gift that will take us over our goal, he sees the potential that we have no idea lies within us.  And he drops those gifts at the most surprising times, just like he did over two thousand years ago.

Merry Christmas.