Tuesday, October 19, 2010
"it's the thought that counts..."
have you ever thought about what that phrase really means?
it's actually a pretty ridiculous thing to say... just an excuse... for not actually DOING something nice for someone...
so, you didn't do something nice for someone, but you thought about it?... wow, that's actually worse than not thinking about it!
it's not the thought that counts... it's the ACTION that counts... ever heard of "love is a verb"?
it reminds me of the passages in the book of James that talk about how important ACTING on our faith is...faith without actions is dead...
i guess that leads to another, more accurate saying: "actions speak louder than words" (or thoughts, i might add)...
c2010 lorenda houston
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
prayer as a weapon...
...and I don't mean the good kind, as in "spiritual warfare".
I mean, have you ever been around a person who seems to use public prayer as a means to avoid communication; as a means to punish another; as a means to exert control over others?
Prayer is one of the most wonderful and powerful tools we have as Christ-followers and was never intended to be used in any kind of negative way. When you are disappointed with your child's behavior, it's fine to pray together about it, but it's not okay to try to correct that behavior with the words you use in that prayer. In doing so, you will likely cause your child to think of God negatively. She may think God is as angry with her as you are. I have often told my children that there may be times they feel they can't talk to me, but they should know they can ALWAYS talk to God (pray). And, that is what we want our children to feel and know...NOT, that, oh yes, God loves you, but he is also really ANGRY with you! That is not based in truth.
When a family crisis arises, it's wonderful to pray together, but not in order to avoid actual communication with one another. Pray that God will help you all communicate clearly and be respectful of each other's feelings and bring healing where there has been hurt, and then proceed to actually talk and listen and work through the crisis as a family should.
One of the worst is when you hear a preacher pray publicly and you're left feeling as if you've received a tongue-lashing. Or, he/she prays and you feel as if they are "in cahoots" with God and you're simply a lowly peon. How very different from the way the Bible encourages each of us and all of us to go to "the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." (Hebrews 4:16)
Prayer is a connection built on love. It is communication with our Creator, the one who loves us all the same and each of us equally. You, as a parent, can go to the throne of grace with confidence, just as can your child. You, as a leader, can go to the throne of grace with confidence, just as can those whom you are leading. Doesn't the Bible make it clear that in God's eyes we "are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus... There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus"? (Galatians 3:20)
So, let us be careful how we use times of public prayer... Just as I want my life, lived out, to speak the truth about who Jesus is, so I want my words of communication with God to be a truthful portrayal of how he feels about me and those listening, whether that listener is my precious child or a room full of people who have graciously gathered to hear what I have to say. Isn't part of our job description as Christians to remove walls between people and God, to make the path clear, simple, easy to understand? It seems that prayer is another one of those things that we've abused and misused and built into something it's not supposed to be which actually BLOCKS the view to Christ...
c2010 lorenda houston
I mean, have you ever been around a person who seems to use public prayer as a means to avoid communication; as a means to punish another; as a means to exert control over others?
Prayer is one of the most wonderful and powerful tools we have as Christ-followers and was never intended to be used in any kind of negative way. When you are disappointed with your child's behavior, it's fine to pray together about it, but it's not okay to try to correct that behavior with the words you use in that prayer. In doing so, you will likely cause your child to think of God negatively. She may think God is as angry with her as you are. I have often told my children that there may be times they feel they can't talk to me, but they should know they can ALWAYS talk to God (pray). And, that is what we want our children to feel and know...NOT, that, oh yes, God loves you, but he is also really ANGRY with you! That is not based in truth.
When a family crisis arises, it's wonderful to pray together, but not in order to avoid actual communication with one another. Pray that God will help you all communicate clearly and be respectful of each other's feelings and bring healing where there has been hurt, and then proceed to actually talk and listen and work through the crisis as a family should.
One of the worst is when you hear a preacher pray publicly and you're left feeling as if you've received a tongue-lashing. Or, he/she prays and you feel as if they are "in cahoots" with God and you're simply a lowly peon. How very different from the way the Bible encourages each of us and all of us to go to "the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." (Hebrews 4:16)
Prayer is a connection built on love. It is communication with our Creator, the one who loves us all the same and each of us equally. You, as a parent, can go to the throne of grace with confidence, just as can your child. You, as a leader, can go to the throne of grace with confidence, just as can those whom you are leading. Doesn't the Bible make it clear that in God's eyes we "are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus... There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus"? (Galatians 3:20)
So, let us be careful how we use times of public prayer... Just as I want my life, lived out, to speak the truth about who Jesus is, so I want my words of communication with God to be a truthful portrayal of how he feels about me and those listening, whether that listener is my precious child or a room full of people who have graciously gathered to hear what I have to say. Isn't part of our job description as Christians to remove walls between people and God, to make the path clear, simple, easy to understand? It seems that prayer is another one of those things that we've abused and misused and built into something it's not supposed to be which actually BLOCKS the view to Christ...
c2010 lorenda houston
Saturday, October 2, 2010
She lies down at dawn and rises in the early afternoon. I gently, cautiously extract myself from my cozy spot in the bed beside her so as not to cause her any disturbance of sleep. Her hearing aids lay on the bedside table, so I know she cannot hear if I move quietly enough; still, I don't want my movements to awaken her. She lies peacefully still on her cushion of sheepskin on top of the bedsheets, covered by warm blankets. Stealthily, I move out of the bedroom and into the kitchen...
Until she wakes, I mill around quietly in the ancient two-story house, home to various family members at different times throughout the years, but, in my mind, it is and forever shall be, her house. With the curtains drawn, the shadowy light provides the perfect setting for my secret discoveries and happy solitude. Everything seems magical during these hours...
She is a collector of many things, all infinitely interesting to my young creative mind. Rows of variously shaped wine glasses, carefully stored in open-fronted cabinets high off the floor, never used for wine, of course, as we are a non-drinking family; yet, lovingly and painstakingly hand-washed, dried and put away after each use. We do use them -- it would be ridiculous not to enjoy their interesting shapes, always held in my hand with the stem between my fingers, just so... Late at night, we enjoy simplistically elegant meals of cheese and crackers, accompanied by grape juice or some such beverage served expansively in one of the wine glasses of our choice. Many of the smaller ones are housed in a shelving unit along the wall behind the small kitchen table, more easily accessible to her and to me. Shot glasses of many colors, tiny stemmed glasses, all playing into my passion for miniature things.
The house is always neatly cluttered with her things. Stacks of notes to remind her of the things she doesn't want to forget are on the desk made especially for her, with plenty of room underneath for her chair to slide in easily. Lions and tigers -- photos, figurines, stuffed animals -- are scattered throughout the rooms, their quiet elegance and graceful strength a constant, calming presence. A rectangular glass container houses blue liquid, which, when turned on, slowly seesaws from side to side, making the liquid move, mimicking a wave on the ocean, for which she so passionately longs. Other reminders of the sea are everywhere...
The hours pass slowly as I explore and daydream... The hardwood floor occasionally groans beneath my socked feet.
There is a delightfully tiny room beneath the staircase in the space between the kitchen, her bedroom and the bathroom. We talk and dream of fixing it up into something really special...maybe a secret reading nook...maybe simply a secret hiding place...
I enjoy climbing the stairs, but since she cannot access them, I don't spend much time up there. At first, that is her sister's space, later used for storage; even later, living space for other family members. While her sister lives there, it is a world unto itself -- light-filled, airy, vibrant; the bed on the screened-in porch a favorite place for sleeping when my sisters and our cousins are all there; the claw-footed tub a favorite place for long, luxurious bubble baths. Her sister's clothes-filled closet stretches from wall to wall in the bedroom. When she came home from college one time, she had a light-blue denim shirt upon which she had embroidered all kinds of things. I vaguely remember something on there having to do with her college boyfriend. All her talk of boyfriends always made me a little flushed with adolescent excitement and pre-pubescent embarrassment. She was the youngest of the siblings, closer to our age than the others, so hip and cool and modern...
But downstairs, it is quiet, serene, peaceful, dark...the perfect place for me. I walk back into the bedroom, and she is stirring. Feather is also awake now. Feather, Freddy, Feather-bed, "Mr." Fred -- her perfectly precocious poodle; her constant companion. She has a million names for her. So many, I can't remember them all. We say good morning. She sits up, puts in her hearing aids and pulls her legs over the side of the bed. She then pulls her chair toward herself and carefully, quickly shifts her body into it. Thus, her "morning" routine begins...
She wheels into the bathroom, asks me if I need anything, and says she'll be an hour or two. Sometimes I leave her to her privacy, other times I stay and help her with something. She empties her bag into the toilet. Whenever we go places together, she always asks me to tell her if I ever smell the urine, in case she doesn't notice. She spends the next while on the toilet, privately taking care of her physical needs, the needs unique to a paraplegic. I feel privileged that she trusts me with these things. Privileged and honored that she would share with me, her young niece, the most personal aspects of her life. But, that's the thing about her -- she makes me feel important.
She is the one person in my world who makes me feel good about who I am. She understands me. We understand each other. Without saying much. We simply know who the other is. I feel unique and special with her, not awkward and misunderstood. I feel no embarrassment being who I am with her; still shy, but "okay", nonetheless.
As she goes through her morning routine, hoisting herself from her chair into the tub with the help of a pull-up bar that Pop fixed for her and bathing, I contentedly care for Feather and wait for her to finish. I may walk past the bathroom and we may talk about something for a moment, or I may leave her, with the door closed, to her warm bath. Finally, she is done and ready to face the day.
We spend the afternoon hours doing this and that... Freddy takes her place either on her lap or on the foot rests of the chair as she wheels around the house. She has a painting in a corner of the living room that always intrigues me. Dark shades of purple with some green...the outline of a silhouetted head ending with an outline of a human body inside the head... She is an artist, a writer, a thinker, yet always frustrated that she can't do more of these things, that she can't express herself more fully. She feels utterly restricted by the chair, the paralysis, the loss...
She is trapped in her body, trapped by her body...trapped by the time she must spend caring for her body... Tormented, at times, by people's well-meaning, yet awkward, sympathy. Tormented by her own physical limitations. Tormented by the abandonment of the man she loved so much... She sometimes suffers with terrible sores that form from not being able to feel what her body needs -- bed sores. And, why, on top of the paralysis and all the physical problems it brings, did she have to suffer hearing loss as well?
She is so beautiful. Deep-set eyes, long, dark hair, tiny wrists, long fingers. She has a meticulous make-up kit with which she "fixes herself up" each day. I don't think she needs it, but she struggles to see the beauty in her face that I - and everybody else - so clearly see. Her waist is tiny, yet all she notices are her thighs, which appear wide to her as she sits in the chair -- that being her only vantage point. Her feet sit without feeling on the footholds that fold up or down as needed at the bottom of the chair. Her toes curl under a bit, but to my eyes, there is no "deformity" there. All I see is her gentle spirit and radiant beauty. She wears an intriguing ring on her lovely long, bony finger. The stone is reminiscent of the painting...iridescent purple with some green in the right light, an elongated marquise cut. It usually dangles the wrong way on her finger because the meat in between her knuckles is a bit lacking. Sometimes one of her legs will suddenly kick straight out in front of her, as if protesting its typical lack of movement, and she must coax it down from its stiffness, as if calming the unrest in her very soul. We usually laugh together when this happens, and I understand innately how laughter can be a welcome coping mechanism...
As afternoon turns to evening, the sun sets and the stars begin to appear, we come to her favorite part of the day. Night. It is my favorite, too. I feel fully alive at night, as does she. Neighbors, including family who live in homes on the same property, with Pop's auto-repair shop, "Lee's Garage", at the center, begin to go to bed for the night. But we, two night owls, are just getting started. We light candles, play cards and enjoy our cheese and crackers feast as the magical night wears on. No one comes to bother, checking in, interrupting our solitude. It is just we two. Oh, and Fredder-bed! We talk and play into the wee hours of the morning. At the perfect point of darkness, she wheels outside and I follow, onto the long concrete sidewalk, high off the ground, connecting her house with her older sister's. We sit and look at the moon and stars, enjoying the solitude and quiet of the dark night. Sometimes, I stay up with her to watch the sun peek over the horizon, but I always feel a little naughty when I do, and she always feels concerned for me. So, usually I retire to bed before she does, snuggling down under the heavy, furry blanket, feeling safe... content... understood.
She has suffered so. She suffers still. Yet, she has given me something I so desperately need. She -- my dear, damaged, disabled, Aunt Elaine, has accepted me as I am and has made me feel I have something important to offer the world. She calls me "Kidden" (I do love cats), and I call her "Laine", my "favorite". In her seeming powerlessness, she has empowered me to be who I am... The beauty and brokenness of her uniqueness have shown me how to be my own unique self. The honesty of our conversations and her desire to listen to me have made me feel I have something to offer. I am and will forever be indebted to her because of it.
c2010 lorenda houston
Until she wakes, I mill around quietly in the ancient two-story house, home to various family members at different times throughout the years, but, in my mind, it is and forever shall be, her house. With the curtains drawn, the shadowy light provides the perfect setting for my secret discoveries and happy solitude. Everything seems magical during these hours...
She is a collector of many things, all infinitely interesting to my young creative mind. Rows of variously shaped wine glasses, carefully stored in open-fronted cabinets high off the floor, never used for wine, of course, as we are a non-drinking family; yet, lovingly and painstakingly hand-washed, dried and put away after each use. We do use them -- it would be ridiculous not to enjoy their interesting shapes, always held in my hand with the stem between my fingers, just so... Late at night, we enjoy simplistically elegant meals of cheese and crackers, accompanied by grape juice or some such beverage served expansively in one of the wine glasses of our choice. Many of the smaller ones are housed in a shelving unit along the wall behind the small kitchen table, more easily accessible to her and to me. Shot glasses of many colors, tiny stemmed glasses, all playing into my passion for miniature things.
The house is always neatly cluttered with her things. Stacks of notes to remind her of the things she doesn't want to forget are on the desk made especially for her, with plenty of room underneath for her chair to slide in easily. Lions and tigers -- photos, figurines, stuffed animals -- are scattered throughout the rooms, their quiet elegance and graceful strength a constant, calming presence. A rectangular glass container houses blue liquid, which, when turned on, slowly seesaws from side to side, making the liquid move, mimicking a wave on the ocean, for which she so passionately longs. Other reminders of the sea are everywhere...
The hours pass slowly as I explore and daydream... The hardwood floor occasionally groans beneath my socked feet.
There is a delightfully tiny room beneath the staircase in the space between the kitchen, her bedroom and the bathroom. We talk and dream of fixing it up into something really special...maybe a secret reading nook...maybe simply a secret hiding place...
I enjoy climbing the stairs, but since she cannot access them, I don't spend much time up there. At first, that is her sister's space, later used for storage; even later, living space for other family members. While her sister lives there, it is a world unto itself -- light-filled, airy, vibrant; the bed on the screened-in porch a favorite place for sleeping when my sisters and our cousins are all there; the claw-footed tub a favorite place for long, luxurious bubble baths. Her sister's clothes-filled closet stretches from wall to wall in the bedroom. When she came home from college one time, she had a light-blue denim shirt upon which she had embroidered all kinds of things. I vaguely remember something on there having to do with her college boyfriend. All her talk of boyfriends always made me a little flushed with adolescent excitement and pre-pubescent embarrassment. She was the youngest of the siblings, closer to our age than the others, so hip and cool and modern...
But downstairs, it is quiet, serene, peaceful, dark...the perfect place for me. I walk back into the bedroom, and she is stirring. Feather is also awake now. Feather, Freddy, Feather-bed, "Mr." Fred -- her perfectly precocious poodle; her constant companion. She has a million names for her. So many, I can't remember them all. We say good morning. She sits up, puts in her hearing aids and pulls her legs over the side of the bed. She then pulls her chair toward herself and carefully, quickly shifts her body into it. Thus, her "morning" routine begins...
She wheels into the bathroom, asks me if I need anything, and says she'll be an hour or two. Sometimes I leave her to her privacy, other times I stay and help her with something. She empties her bag into the toilet. Whenever we go places together, she always asks me to tell her if I ever smell the urine, in case she doesn't notice. She spends the next while on the toilet, privately taking care of her physical needs, the needs unique to a paraplegic. I feel privileged that she trusts me with these things. Privileged and honored that she would share with me, her young niece, the most personal aspects of her life. But, that's the thing about her -- she makes me feel important.
She is the one person in my world who makes me feel good about who I am. She understands me. We understand each other. Without saying much. We simply know who the other is. I feel unique and special with her, not awkward and misunderstood. I feel no embarrassment being who I am with her; still shy, but "okay", nonetheless.
As she goes through her morning routine, hoisting herself from her chair into the tub with the help of a pull-up bar that Pop fixed for her and bathing, I contentedly care for Feather and wait for her to finish. I may walk past the bathroom and we may talk about something for a moment, or I may leave her, with the door closed, to her warm bath. Finally, she is done and ready to face the day.
We spend the afternoon hours doing this and that... Freddy takes her place either on her lap or on the foot rests of the chair as she wheels around the house. She has a painting in a corner of the living room that always intrigues me. Dark shades of purple with some green...the outline of a silhouetted head ending with an outline of a human body inside the head... She is an artist, a writer, a thinker, yet always frustrated that she can't do more of these things, that she can't express herself more fully. She feels utterly restricted by the chair, the paralysis, the loss...
She is trapped in her body, trapped by her body...trapped by the time she must spend caring for her body... Tormented, at times, by people's well-meaning, yet awkward, sympathy. Tormented by her own physical limitations. Tormented by the abandonment of the man she loved so much... She sometimes suffers with terrible sores that form from not being able to feel what her body needs -- bed sores. And, why, on top of the paralysis and all the physical problems it brings, did she have to suffer hearing loss as well?
She is so beautiful. Deep-set eyes, long, dark hair, tiny wrists, long fingers. She has a meticulous make-up kit with which she "fixes herself up" each day. I don't think she needs it, but she struggles to see the beauty in her face that I - and everybody else - so clearly see. Her waist is tiny, yet all she notices are her thighs, which appear wide to her as she sits in the chair -- that being her only vantage point. Her feet sit without feeling on the footholds that fold up or down as needed at the bottom of the chair. Her toes curl under a bit, but to my eyes, there is no "deformity" there. All I see is her gentle spirit and radiant beauty. She wears an intriguing ring on her lovely long, bony finger. The stone is reminiscent of the painting...iridescent purple with some green in the right light, an elongated marquise cut. It usually dangles the wrong way on her finger because the meat in between her knuckles is a bit lacking. Sometimes one of her legs will suddenly kick straight out in front of her, as if protesting its typical lack of movement, and she must coax it down from its stiffness, as if calming the unrest in her very soul. We usually laugh together when this happens, and I understand innately how laughter can be a welcome coping mechanism...
As afternoon turns to evening, the sun sets and the stars begin to appear, we come to her favorite part of the day. Night. It is my favorite, too. I feel fully alive at night, as does she. Neighbors, including family who live in homes on the same property, with Pop's auto-repair shop, "Lee's Garage", at the center, begin to go to bed for the night. But we, two night owls, are just getting started. We light candles, play cards and enjoy our cheese and crackers feast as the magical night wears on. No one comes to bother, checking in, interrupting our solitude. It is just we two. Oh, and Fredder-bed! We talk and play into the wee hours of the morning. At the perfect point of darkness, she wheels outside and I follow, onto the long concrete sidewalk, high off the ground, connecting her house with her older sister's. We sit and look at the moon and stars, enjoying the solitude and quiet of the dark night. Sometimes, I stay up with her to watch the sun peek over the horizon, but I always feel a little naughty when I do, and she always feels concerned for me. So, usually I retire to bed before she does, snuggling down under the heavy, furry blanket, feeling safe... content... understood.
She has suffered so. She suffers still. Yet, she has given me something I so desperately need. She -- my dear, damaged, disabled, Aunt Elaine, has accepted me as I am and has made me feel I have something important to offer the world. She calls me "Kidden" (I do love cats), and I call her "Laine", my "favorite". In her seeming powerlessness, she has empowered me to be who I am... The beauty and brokenness of her uniqueness have shown me how to be my own unique self. The honesty of our conversations and her desire to listen to me have made me feel I have something to offer. I am and will forever be indebted to her because of it.
c2010 lorenda houston
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