The View from this Inn

Christmas 2010

Christmas 2009

Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? -- Matthew 6:27

I have at times in the past skated on very thin ice, life-speaking. I have also been tested by fire and occasionally found lacking. I have been cold and I have been warm and I have been luke . . . as in lukewarm, somewhere in the sad and unsatisfying middle. But this year, as Christmas closes in, I am at peace, almost overwhelmed by the incredible undeniable truth that wherever and whenever, I am never alone. And never will be.

Last Saturday night, one week before Christmas, around 10:30 p.m., our house went up in flames. Five hours later, with smoke still rising from the ashes of a few glowing spots set against the dark horizon, we viewed from our rear-view mirror -- as we drove down our street -- the grey piles of decades of memories being sifted by the night's cold wind . . . and we took them with us. Memories.

The charred rafters poked into the night toward the stars like ribs from a skeleton, having surrendered the contents of an attic filled with the scrapbooks and collected "stuff," of college, courtship, marriage, the raising of five children, all the good things sifted and saved from the ups-and-downs of life lived together . . . in a house that is no more. Star Wars toys and baby dolls, baseball cards and baby books, all the "mines" that became one big "ours." The first-owners of the precious things grew up and moved on to other precious things, leaving behind little monuments to the pieces of days that form a history of a family, not completely-told. We have a tendency to bar from the attic the times of heartache and let them dwell more personally in our minds. Attics, while always portrayed as foreboding and frightening, are usually filled with the better things of life, the fragments we hold on to for the peace they bring us when we picture them there or dig through to hold them briefly once again.

In the unrelenting and indiscriminating fire, colorful plastics and bright fabrics become grey; photos curl and blacken and turn to dust. Oft-used and carefully-preserved baby furniture turns crisp and crumbles into a wind-sifted mix with everyday un-notables like ironing boards and end-tables. And finally, the "things" of life are matted into the melted carpet by gallons and gallons of water until the precious mixes with the priceless and the pointless to make a porridge, a gooey, sticky paste upon the floor.

All gone.

Stuff.

Forever in the rear-view mirror, no matter how many circles we make to try to come in around before the fire.

Adios, stuff.

Now, don't get me wrong. I miss the stuff, but I miss greater things. We lost a lot, but we have endured greater loss before. I would like some of the stuff back into my life, but not as much as I want something else -- someone else -- back. Make that plural. People away long before the fire.

I guess I fear that a new attic on a new house may remain too empty.

Three days have passed and the house did not rise, proving once again that if we worship stuff, we ourselves may someday just be more of the mix of grey. No, the house did not rise . . . but the sun did, right there where it always has, just to the east of the piece of land on which the house stood.

What good is a fire -- or any seemingly-destructive moment in our lives -- if we don't try to see in it how God is able? Able to take those ashes that look like "the end" to us and work His endless beginnings again?  What good is searing heat without eye-opening light? What good is a look into the rear-view mirror if it is not to safely change lanes and proceed? What good is it to lose all that old stuff if we forget that He is always making all things new?

At night, when there is nothing more to do, I think through the why and come up with . . . whatever? Mental flexing won't re-mix mortar and re-frame walls that aren't there anymore no more than it will take down walls still there that you wish were not. But still, you can't help but wonder and though God is the God of all Wonders, the devil of doubt likes to use them too.

Such as . . .

-- Maybe this is somehow my fault? Not, fault as in, did I leave a burner on ( I didn't), or put something too close to a heater (nope) or . . . whatever . . . nada.  In fact, I was simply watching a less-than-a-barn-burner basketball game on TV and smelled something burning. That simple. The "fault" questions plague the mind at midnight because, no matter how fully aware we are of forgiveness, we sometimes think we deserve every bad thing that happens to us, as if God sits with a scorecard and realizes all of a sudden we need a holy zap. I'm not talking about the natural consequences that arise from our sins, but just the general late-night idea that, because we failed and turned away in the past, we are doomed to encounter all kinds of dreadful things in the future, as if, somehow past bad judgment and temptation-succumbing should just naturally lead to a house-fire. "I deserve this." Nope.  I deserved lots of things that were specifically-connected to my sins, but the towering inferno is not one of those things. God doesn't work that way. Our lives may seemingly go up in smoke because of sexual sin, but our house is not predestined to flash into flames.

-- Maybe God will work a miracle. Maybe. Maybe not. Miracle-musing at midnight fades in the brightness of the realistic dawn. God can do anything. He could use this tragedy to fulfill a wish list or answer a prayer. He could. These moments work in movies and books to round out the tragedy of the plot and bring everyone home in a group-hug moment of awakening, forgiveness and a furious re-building of relationships. The important thing in real life for the Christian -- no matter how terribly checkered or how nearly flawless the life lived so far -- is to trust and obey. Expectations built on that foundation are always met. "Trust and Obey" are not lyrics or simple inspiring words, they are God's Word, strong and mighty. He just naturally likes us to do what He knows is best for us.

-- Maybe I'm just cursed.  If so, a quick read of the morning paper puts me in good company. If all the afflicted are cursed, the crowd is approaching a point beyond control. The pain some people bear these days before Christmas makes my "stuff," seem less than minimal and my focus on it purely dismal and dumb. In a world full pf people who pant thirstily for peace, chaos too often reigns.

Maybe . . . maybe I should just drop all the maybes altogether and celebrate the blessings I have this Christmas because they are too many to count.

No maybe about this: I have a wonderful wife -- Lisa -- who truly does see beauty rising from ashes and is patient enough to wait for others to clue in to the view.

No maybe about this: I have friends.  I have neighbors. I have family. Good and loving people, whether they're in Norman, Oklahoma or Faridpur, Bangladesh, Cincinnati or Columbia, Seattle or OKC, Texas or Tennessee, Alaska or Australia. God's house is really big, and it stands. And encourages. And helps. And loves.

Which leads me back to the blessings. And peace. For some reason, I have a feeling this Christmas will rank a bit higher even than the year I got the hamster . . . and, at that time of life, I could not see how that could ever be topped.

Thank you for your prayers. You have helped me see that God was with me, not in the attic. He was not framed in by the flaming walls. He does not drift away on clouds of smoke into the night and His brightness does not fade no matter how blazing the rising or setting of the sun, just one of His many handiworks.

And that, my friends, is the view from this Inn this Christmas . . . Residence Inn . . . which had plenty of room.

God Bless and a VERY Merry Christmas!

Thom

(Note: My new book, Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do is now available. You can purchase it by using this link to my website: ThomHunter.com, or on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com or through your local bookstore. The book is available in soft-cover, hard-back or Kindle and Nook e-books. Thank you!)

Denial Really is a River

The view from the banks doesn’t tell us how deep

Is the beautiful river that flows.

As the babbling sound of the water that speeds

Calls out to our landlocked souls.

We hold fast on the shore, skipping rocks in the swells

As the sun’s light repaints the deep blue

And the water moves on carrying with it the hope

Of a life we so want to renew.

A life spent on dry land, with a river in sight

A life thirsty and wanting for more

We keep longingly searching as day fades to night

And the river's voice grows to a roar.

We will know where it goes when we take the first step

Leaving shoes in the mud at the side

Into the beautiful river that flows clean and clear

And is endlessly deep and wide.

-- Thom Hunter

I've never been very good at self-introduction, perhaps because it always requires a little panic-stricken introspection, a super-fast sorting, a quick evaluation and a rapid response.  From kindergarten on, we're always being asked to tell the world -- or at least a little crumble of it -- a "bit" about ourselves in those quickly-forgotten "we really do want to know you" moments.

"Tell us in a nutshell who you are . . . just a little bit about you," he says with a smile. Or she says with a grin.  Then silence . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . looking around the room; people gesturing encouragement.

"Just a few words," she says. "A couple. Please."

And then, in a nervous burst of energy, we answer and it's done. Can we please move on to the next person in the group?

"Well, I like to play football, watch science fiction, read novels, cook, sky-dive, sketch architectural designs on napkins, re-build engines and I enjoy landscaping in my leisure time. Oh . . . and I memorize Scripture. 'Jesus wept.'"

Polite applause and on to the next person in the circle.

With a brief sigh of relief, I always knew that my limited self-revelation  would be accepted.  Probing rarely went beyond questions like, "well, if you were a tree, what tree would you be?" I was responsive, but rueful, supplying the right answers to the wrong request: "Tell us in a nutshell who you are."  Thank goodness the request was not for a boatload.

"Well, I struggle with unwanted same-sex attraction and I'm always a little worried that maybe that will never change and my world will collapse around me because I'm not being who God wants me to be and I'm concerned about the whole smiting thing . . . and people finding out . . . and being hated . . . and rejected . . . and humiliated . . . and . . . "

Oops. Boatload.  

For Christians who battle a relentless and unwelcome sexual temptation, walking the fine line between who we really are and who we want others to think we are, puts us in constant danger of falling out of the boat and into the river. Some days we would welcome being swept away to a peaceful place downstream. Most days we tread water and fight currents. We know that "what you don't know" will hurt you and it will hurt me, so we don't tell. The facts become so deeply buried that leaving them there could hardly be called denial. Right?

Then He called the crowd to Him along with His disciples and said: “Whoever wants to be My disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow Me." -- Mark 8:34

There are a lot of important words in that verse:


He called -- Jesus wanted to make sure everyone heard Him. He didn't whisper; He called.


The crowd -- Jesus was telling everyone they had an opportunity, not just a few people here and there.


Whoever wants -- So, yes, He was talking to everyone, but it was only going to work for the ones who wanted it.


My disciple -- Not someone else's or something else's.  


Deny -- Hmmm . . . there's a requirement here.


Themselves -- Now that's interesting. Not some dark deed or a Hostess Twinkie, but self? Each one?


Take Up -- Action words again. Mercy . . . first you have to listen . . . then you have to want . . . then you have to deny . . . and now you have to take up? Take up what? And where is this leading?


Their cross -- Oh, that. You take yours; I'll take mine.


Follow Me -- Wow, easier sung than done. "Where He leads me, I will follow." Drat those distractions.


Ummm . . . Jesus? Would You mind if maybe I take up someone else's cross and follow you? Would that work? Perhaps the skydiver guy's? Mine is too heavy and someone might see me dragging it around. Actually, someone might trip and fall into the deep furrows behind me.


I'm not only not unfamiliar with denial, I'm practiced at it. Unfortunately, though it was clearly denial, it was the wrong kind of denial, the hiding behind a self-projected and self-protected self, instead of a laying down of a self-rejected self. As you can clearly see, I was a bit full of . . . my self. That's what the wrong kind of denial does. It spins us into a spiral of sorting and picking, piecing together the parts of ourselves we want to display, practicing comfortable answers to discomforting questions. It can lead to a deadly dance of the despairing Ds: deny, deceive, delay, depart, decay, destroy. Depressing.


I don't think Jesus is asking us to come screaming out of our shadowy recesses and declare our dastardly deeds and caustic compulsions and twisted temptations and startling stumblings like some leper calling out before himself a warning to all who hear. Sometimes transparency is better accepted by those around us after a bit of healing has taken place . . . after a season of cross-bearing and following Him. In a perfect world, Christians would be able to bear their own crosses and lend you a hand with yours, but most can't and few will. I've discovered some of those few and am amazed, but realize they do so only through Christ. Unfortunately, we live in that imperfect world where even Christians feign shock at sin, perhaps having only glanced at the pages of God's Word, creating a simplified view from selective verses.


We sin. We fall. We plunge headlong into Satan's schemes. And the cross gets all the heavier it seems as we get all the weaker. And then, just about the time our face is about to hit the rocks, we hear . . . 

"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." -- Matthew 11:28.

Don't you just get so tired sometimes that you want to throw your hands up and say, "I give up. This is me. Get over it." You want to proclaim yourself free from the struggle, refusing any longer to deny "who you really are?"


That's not denial. That's acceptance. That's not soaring into freedom; it's settling for bondage. It really is giving up, not giving up our selves. Perhaps the denial of denying is one of the toughest temptations of all, leading to a disastrous surrender. "I just can't." Who wants to go thump-thump-thumping down a long and hard road stooped over with a cross on his back when it is so much easier to just log on to a computer and let your eyes glaze over at airbrushed pictures or meet up with another wanderer trying to convince himself he's used up all his tokens for the turnaround turnpike and may as well see where the dead-end ends?

You're right. You can't. That's the thing about denial. When you deny yourself, you become His. Remember? That was in the verse too. That was the promise. "My disciple." Jesus loves His disciples. You think He won't be looking over His shoulder as you fall in behind Him bearing your cross? You think He's going to let you slide down into the dust with a "too bad, so sad," retort because your cross was too heavy in the early-going?

If Jesus didn't love me . . . if He hadn't forgiven me . . . if He didn't want me . . . if He didn't need me . . . I'd chuck this cross into the mighty river, have a picnic and watch it fade from view into the horizon. But He does . . . and I won't.

Yes, it's hard. And you will have to bear the ignorance of those who think your sin is worse than theirs and that you are less than they. That's just a cross you'll have to bear.

But you don't have to do it alone.

God Bless,

Thom

(Note: My new book, Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do is now available. You can purchase it by using the link to the right of this blog, or on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com or through your local bookstore. The book is available in soft-cover, hard-back or Kindle and Nook e-books. Thank you!)

The Consequences of Careless Compassion

(Note: I would appreciate your prayers for my mother, Mary Ellen, as she is ill and in the hospital in Dallas. I've gone to visit her. I'm posting here a chapter from my book, Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do. If you would like to order an autographed copyof my book, please click the link to the right of this blog post. The book is also available on Amazon.com or through your bookstore. Thanks!)

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Careless Compassion

I asked you what was wrong with me
"Nothing," you said, that you could see.
"Just be what you were meant to be."
And that's supposed to set me free?

"But this feels wrong, I answered back.
Somehow I just seem way off track.
"You're fine," you said, with gentle tact.
"Your feelings are just out of whack."

"Don't carry 'round your guilt that way.
"We're living in a brand new day.
"There's no more need to self-betray.
"Don't give self-judgment so much sway.

But what of God? He sees inside.
Surely He won't just let me hide.
With self and pride so justified,
And truth and grace so well denied?

You answered back with a practiced glow,
"Just drop this sadness, discard that woe.
"Accept yourself, just bloom and grow.
"After all, God loves you too, you know."

Still, a bit of truth slipped from you to me.
God does love me . . . and set me free
From what I was to what I'll be
For God's compassion won't lie to me.
-- Thom Hunter


Outside my window this morning, life is fluttering by.  Literally.  In the past few moments, a graceful, floating butterfly and a determined and focused red wasp have been gliding about just beyond the window screen.  Both of them on a mission.  Pollination, sweet nectar, a bitter sting.  A mix of beauty and a bit of bite.

Some mornings we want a butterfly to lull us into peaceful bliss.  Some days we deserve -- and need -- a sting to bring us directly into contact with the reality of pain.  Sometimes when we want to follow the lazy butterfly down the garden path, we should be dashing down a trail swatting away at a yellowjacket, confronting the reality that life bites more often than hope floats.

I have come to the conclusion that at this point in my life I have been favored by a rationing of compassion, resulting in a reasonable rationality of reality.  For the most part, my problems indeed turned out to be real problems for me and many others . . . which in the long run leads me to seek real solutions.  Of course, that "long run" has been much longer than I would have ever thought my mind and heart and soul could survive, and it surpassed the limits of others.  But guess what?  The perilous points of rest along the way were punctuated with real compassion . . . the love that God provides for the endurance of those who run the race instead of forsaking the pace.

Truly I have experienced the mean-ness of compassion. That borderline compassion that feels so hateful at the time, like the sting of a wayward wasp, who sits for a second on your bare arm, inflicts his pain and flits away leaving heat and swelling, redness and itching.  That's wrong . . . and it's why aerosol sprays were invented, so you can respond in justified wrath.  Sometimes, when  those who claim to represent God inflict "compassion" in ways of pain and flitting, they need to be shot down so they don't just fly around stinging others.

I have also experienced what seems to be the coldness of compassion.  Zapped by truth in its most freezing and paralyzing form, left to drift and die on an iceberg in view of those who sip their drinks on the balcony of passing ships and point at me as I become smaller and smaller as the distance between us grows.  They may be cruising on their own Titanic, but no one may know 'till the iceberg comes to view.

Lest this be seen as merely a meandering of woe is me, I have also experienced the compassion that is real and warm to the touch.  A compassion that does not depend on determined distance but on intended closeness.  Not on separation, but on walking with.  I am amazed at the beauty and grace that some exhibit, pouring out in an immeasurable and constant flow the compassion that comes from an unlimited source.  They heard and learned of God's truth and refuse to let the world's definition of it divide it into meaningless portions.

Maybe it takes a mix of compassion.  Even the bitterness of detachment can be motivating.  Perhaps the experiences we have of being cast aside and tossed away by those who discriminate not between sin and sinner, teaches us great things not only about consequence and condemnation, but also builds our own commitment to convey compassion that is not contorted.  I find myself feeling compassion for those who have abused it; those who banged people about the head with love in the name of holy correction.  I pity them because they share this world and when they fall, they will want to sample a compassion that rises far above what they themselves have shared.

But who do I really feel sorry for?  I feel sorry for those who have suffered and cried and were not told that Christ had suffered and died so they could be freed from that.  I feel sorry for those who have been drowned in the gushing carelessness of a compassion that tells them that they don't have to change, they don't have to address sin so they can swim in the cleansing lake of grace and emerge on the banks of freedom to walk free of the weight of who they were.

The harshness of "hate the sin, love the sinner," has, in the compassionate minds of the misguided, dissolved into a hollow "I love you just the way you are."  No . . . you don't.  If you really love them the way they are, you'll help them be what God intended them to be.  I am so saddened for the young men and women whose parents, in selfishness, embrace their giving in to temptation so they can still have Sunday lunch and smile and pass the peas.  Careless compassion causes us to place happiness above healing . . . and we have not because we ask not.  The carelessly compassionate Christian prays for a perverted peace and discovers turmoil; proclaims acceptance and smothers a deeper and honest desire for change in the ones we love. This is not happiness; this is not healing; this is not helping.

Does it sound like I am not compassionate?  Should we pick up a drunk on the sidewalk and help him back into the bar so he won't think we are judging him?  Should we pause to tell a prostitute she might look prettier in a brighter shade of pink?  Should we stock a few essentials in the cabinet for the visiting addict to cook his meth?  Should we give a list of topics for the local church gossip to make her job easier?  Look the other way when cheaters get a little careless so they won't get uncomfortable when revealed?  We may as well paint a bull’s-eye on our shoulder to make it easier for the wasp to zero in.

Careless compassion can be as dangerous as not caring at all.  I never wanted anyone to tell me that my sexual brokenness was just a cause for celebration.  Unfaithfulness is unfaithfulness.  Sin is sin.  Lust is lust.  Betrayal is betrayal. Deception is lying.  Knowing God's Word and doing one's own will is willfully defying. 

Wandering is wandering.  If we're lost in a desert and we have a choice between a determined guide who knows his way out or a jovial, smiling and funny "it'll be okay, we'll find our way" sympathetic soul to walk with us until we drop in thirst upon the barren sand . . . who should we choose?  I don't know about you, but I wanted out.

Some have not gone with me.  Some may never believe I found an oasis and drank.  Some are still back there at the edge of the desert telling the slowly-dehydrating that they'll be fine.  "Just keep putting one foot in front of the other."  Others are standing at the same edge and saying "you deserve it.  The buzzards will be here soon."

Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, preaching the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. When He saw the crowds, He had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. -- Matthew 9:35-36

Don't mislead me; don't leave me. 

Compassion is a gift from God that we can corrupt like everything else He gives us.  Oh . . . but when it is presented in its perfect form, what healing takes place, what joy abounds, what grace flows and what beauty springs forth from the dry desert, shocking those who view it, like a brilliant and seemingly fragile butterfly that pauses on a morning glory.  Imagine, that little fluttering thing that looks like tissue paper in flight can cross the continent and return again.  It looks weak, but it is strong because it has learned to manage the currents and soar.

This past week at the Southern Baptist Convention, I looked into the eyes of Christian parents seeking direction on how to love their children who are falling prey to the lies Satan is spinning at an ever-more-furious pace and which the world is reproducing and portraying in an ever-more-attractive display.  How do we love those who are drowning in proud deception?  How do we keep them close and yet speak a truth that often makes them want to expand the distance?

With compassion. 

To love them less with this sin is a betrayal.  We all sin in one form or another from the day we enter this world.  Self-centeredness can take some nasty forms, but it is still that:  seeking the satisfaction of the self.  Our response is to be compassionate and giving of self.

In retrospect, reviewing the years of dog-paddling in my pool of sin, I realize I would only reach out to take the hand of ones who could see me as I am -- created like them in the image of God -- and accept me there with the compassion not of "love the sinner, hate the sin," but of "I love who you are as a child of God."  These are the ones who went beyond tossing a vinyl ring with verses printed on it so I could ponder as I tooled around in the pool.  They had no fear of the water. These are the ones who helped me out and showed me a stroke that does more than just keep your head above water, but actually moves you toward the side.  They put more value on me than they did my sin.  By showing me the value of me, they helped diminish the value of the sin onto which I held in my distress and it became less and less of a lifesaver as it became less and less of my life.

Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:  Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. -- Lamentations 3:21-22

True compassion is not compromised. Compassion, God's truth, love and hope are intertwined like a strong and trusty rope.  Remove one and we are in danger of descending back into the mire.  Of being re-consumed.

Practice "true" compassion.  It's a life-saving skill.

God Bless,

Thom

(Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do was written to provide encouragement and support for the struggler and insight for those who are willing to love the struggler through, including family members and church family.)

For the Things We Can't Erase

"Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!"

-- Lady Macbeth, from Shakespeare's Macbeth

I wish -- though I don't believe in wishes -- that I could take a number two pencil and write down on a blue-lined piece of three-hole-punched notebook paper the moments of my life, label it "draft," study it a bit, and then turn the pencil around to the pink side -- the eraser -- and smudge away forever a line here and there . . . many lines, major smudges. Study it a bit more, swipe away with my hand the little black rubber crumbles, dirty from the mix of pink eraser and pencil lead, onto the floor . . . gone.  Erased.

I would take a deep breath, sit back and sigh, copy the remains onto a fresh piece of paper, smooth it out and turn it in . . . to someone. The only copy. Not a draft, but an A-deserving masterpiece. In ink now, my finest handwriting, nothing to erase; no need. I would crumple up the old messy draft, toss it away with no further thought, done, rise, walk.

I wish . . . though I don't believe in wishes.

The truth is, "free will" is more like a Sharpie than a number-two pencil. The use of it leaves permanent marks . . . and often results in a lot of crumbling-up and tossing and shredding instead of erasing. Out, damn'd spot. A part of me would much prefer the sweet smell of a new pink eraser over the black acrid smell of a inky black marker leaving trails and tracks that reflect the staggering stumbles of the exercise of my free will. Can't erase? Reach for the White-Out, which will leave a pasty crumbly mess itself, no match for the thick black markings of me being me . . . showing through.

What would I erase?

Selfishness.

Self-pity.

Self-defensiveness

Self-gratification.

Okay . . . well, maybe that's a little too much "self."

How about . . .

Deception?

Fear?

Doubt?

Weakness?

Self-reliance?  Oops . . . there's that "self" thing again.

What would you erase?

Maybe it would be better to just gently smudge out a moment in time, here and there. Problem is, some of them are so darkly there that the only way to get them out is to rub all the way through the paper, leaving a hole that speaks as clearly as the original deed itself. I've tried. Accepting the fact that I can't erase the deeds of others, I settled for the hope that I could erase my responses to them. Kind of like when you have a long word problem on a math quiz that leaves you stymied and you try this and that . . . erase . . . try again . . . erase. The word problem is still there no matter what you do to the answer.

I wish -- though I don't believe in wishes -- that I could erase the moment that I leaned over to the rolled-down window of a little beige Volkswagen on a foggy campus night in college and accepted a ride out of the drizzle. I would have erased the route to his house and the memory of having been there. Indelible ink.

I would erase the first lie I told. No, not some silly little lie about taking a cookie before dinner, but the first lie I told myself: "this doesn't really matter. I'm not hurting anyone anyway." When you fall for that lie and carry it around inside for a while and find that you can fool yourself into believing it, you start trying it out on others to see if they might fall for it too. Pretty soon, it's you, not a lie. Deception.

If I could not erase the lie, then maybe I could erase the pain that grew from it? The wondering of others pondering the inconsistencies that characterized my character. I became the word problem for which there were no answers and, once they had unsuccessfully figured on it long enough to leave a hole in the page of my life, the hole remains.

I would erase the times I tried to deflect the truth of my actions by pointing a finger someone else, even if . . . no, I'm not going to make any justifications now because that would only leave me with more I would want to erase.  Like the time my son confronted me with knowledge he had that I had sinned sexually and I defended myself by pointing a finger at the way he was confronting me with an anger that was totally justified by my mis-behavior and his hurt, disappointment and disgust. As lies do, it made things worse.

After owning up to true accusations by erasing deception . . . I would then erase the moment I failed to act on a false accusation and let my shame and guilt from true things allow false ones to go unanswered, adding layers of thickness and cubits of height to a wall that now seems impenetrable and unclimbable because of a lie, or, more politely put, a false accusation. I've learned now that anytime a false accusation stands, truth suffers and when truth suffers, we all do.

I would erase the times I said "I will not fail again." I know the devil smiled at that one, for though he could not have known for sure that I would fail again, my claims of strength must have redoubled his efforts. How he must love the little word "I." How he must rejoice (does the devil rejoice?) at the longer word "again," when it is part of a vow, no matter how intentionally intended.  "I" would smudge out the word "I" and try never to write it again with the word "will." God wills.

I would erase the times I hid my unpleasantness behind my efforts to please. The times I worked harder on looking good than on being good, on doing right instead of being right, on projecting an image instead of revealing a reality.

I would erase the haughtiness with which I approached the earliest offers of help and I would scribble in a "yes . . . I need help," and write in clearest cursive, "thank you."

But instead of an eraser, I have pages and pages of  permanent words representing my life ranging from deception to desperation, from putrid prose to pure poetry, from painful falling to joyful soaring, from self . . . there I go again . . . reviling to self-restoring, from quiet hiding to loud revealing, from darkness and heaviness to light and . . . lightness. All there, like a jumble with words out of place, a sentence for which no blackboard is large enough on which to diagram to anyone's specifications. (Like that very sentence.)

I've looked at life from both sides now

From up and down and still somehow

It's life's illusions I recall

I really don't know life at all

 -- Joni Mitchell

Count the "I"s in the lyrics. No wonder we fall so easily to the illusion of life instead of the truth of it. Or at  least, "I" do . . . or did. And when we do, we yearn for the eraser as a quick answer to the question, "Why did I do that?" And we walk around in a stupor, wringing our hands and muttering madly, like Lady Macbeth, or woefully taking the stage like Joni and blaming our actions on our inability to get a grasp on . . . life.

. . . I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly. -- John 10:10

That's the "I" that really matters and the life that is no illusion.

There is no eraser, but there is unlimited chalkboard space. Scribble like Einstein to fit your life into a legalism that will fill every inch of writable room and still leave you unfulfilled and scrambling to do more to prove more and say more and be more and prove more, or just accept that you will never make it without one word:  grace.

For of His fullness we have all received, and grace upon grace. For the Law was given through Moses; grace and truth were realized through Jesus Christ. 

-- John 1:16-17

For the things we can't erase . . . there's grace.

God Bless,

Thom