I have caught the crud.
I actually think it may be the most peculiar crud I've ever caught. No sniffles, sneezing, or sore throat. My chest aches like someone has dumped molten lava into my poor, tender little lungs, who were, by the way, just becoming accustomed to not being charred with a pack's worth of nicotene-flavored smoke a day and that was just fine with them thank you very much. I was running a fever which I think broke sometime during my eighteenth hour of sleep today, and my body aches like I just went ten rounds with Mike Tyson, post cannibalism era. This afternoon saw me pacing up and down the aisles at Kroger, whimpering like a little girl any time I actually had to raise my arms above my head. I'm not entirely sure it was worth the trip. My cats, however, were ecstatic to have their supply of crunchy kitty-oriented goodness replenished, and I have spent the entire time since either comatose or happily inverted beneath an open bottle of nyquil, feet kicking in the air. I may actually be able to go to work tomorrow for my whole four and a half hour shift, which would be nice considering that my creditors don't take too kindly to hearing that really I caught the bubonic plague of fiery death ebola laced sludge in the lungs and really I almost caught pneumonia but my immune system took a break from attacking and dissolving squirrels in the back yard to come to my rescue and as soon as I stop feeling like death I'll work so's I can earn money please don't sell my worldly possessions that would be great thanks!
Also, hoodies are become my bestest friends. I spent most of the last forty-eight hours with my hood over my head.
Now, I have a pretty rockin' immune system, but children carry some of the most virulent stuff I've ever come in contact with. Ergo, each time I am around a sick child, I catch the creeping crud. In the ER last Monday, there were no less than twenty sick kiddos.
I still maintain, however, that short-term sickness is God's way of forcing a vacation on you. I admit, one day of sleeping soundly in a fever-induced fog has been nice. Any more than that, though, and you may have to talk me down off a clocktower and pry the AK-47 out of my hands.
Is it a sign of low intelligence that my cat's snoring STILL freaks me out?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Expect nothing but contented musings...
I just don't have the stress-angst necessary for my usual bitter sarcasm. Life is just too good right now.
Of course, there's a dissenting area of my brain right now (mom and dad always wondered, often aloud, why I was so frickin' argumentative all the time. Here's your answer, mom and pop; my brain is constantly arguing with ME. I'm just translating the internal monologue into external conversation). This area is whispering to me that life always WAS good, I was just too busy being stressed and whiny to notice.
Really, let's look at this logically (famous last words). Even though I had no car, I obviously had friends that loved me enough to never leave me rideless when I really needed it. There was a spectacular four-week span during which I could only work weekends and was rideless and mostly housebound during the week. That was probably one of the most depressing chunks of my life, but through it all I had loving friends who bent over backward to get me out of the house whenever possible, often to their own detriment.
And let's not forget another VERY important fact: I learned what it meant to fully rely on God. Nothing was stable. I was not assured of any income in my rideless state. My family is hundreds of miles away, might as well be light years sometimes. I have, during the nine-month course of all this, developed a massive guilt complex and during my worst moments I was sure that no matter what they said, my friends were growing sick of me and wouldn't stick with me much longer. All that I could be certain of was that Jesus loves me, that God was my helpmeet, and that all this was part of His plan. I came to Him for everything because I had NO recourse. Some days it took His grace and mercy just to give me the motivation to get out of bed.
I say this not to evoke a sense of self-pity, but to underline my gratitude to the One who got me through these times. My Jesus cared on the days when I was too heartsick and hope-starved to give a flying flaming unicorn poot in space. My Jesus was strong on the days I was weak as water, joyful in my depression, and hopeful in my despair.
Even in the last days when I spent most of my time chasing Corrie with a box of tissues and sniffling because I was too volatile to be left unattended (like a cooking omelette...filled with TNT), Jesus stayed by my side, and occasionally gave me a little nudge to ensure that I knew He was still watching.
Jesus: Hey, I've got this.
Me: But...but....STRESS!
Jesus:....did you not hear what I just said? I've GOT this.
Me: Is that what you had said?
Jesus: YES, that's what I HAD SAID.
So now, with a reliable car that by any reasonable standard I should not have the keys to, a steady job that I love in a town so precious I just want to stick it in my pocket, and friends that, despite my depressed self-assurances to the contrary, seem to have survived Hurricane Erin just fine and may even still think I'm nifty.
So ya see, nothing has really changed. I was blessed with a car, true. But God blessed me yesterday, last week, and last month. He will continue to bless me tomorrow, a year from now, and for the rest of my life. The fact that I got what I wanted today doesn't change the fact that He has blessed me, is blessing me, and will continue to bless me. It doesn't mean He loves me any more than He did during my trials. "My" car is just a tool to carry out His work.
Enough seriousness!
Yesterday I got pee in my eye.
Only I would have enough genius to get urine in my eyeball. To add insult to injury, I was in the middle of telling a new nurse that I was showing how to change the Foley bag that this particular procedure carried the risk of urine splashing when the tubes popped apart and sprayed me.
"Now you want to be really careful while you're disconnecting the two tubes, because they can very easily...*POP! SPLOOSH!* .................Do that."
The patient became concerned. "Did you get...hit?"
"In my eyes."
After I literally finished the procedure with my eyes closed, I left the room unceremoniously to summon the DON and flush my eyeballs.
Long story short, I had to throw away my last pair of contact lenses and bum a ride from the administrator to obtain my glasses from Lisa. Then I had to go to the ER.
No kidding.
Four hours of waiting in an emergency waiting room full of sick kids wasn't all bad, cause playing with kids is fun, but I feel bad for missing more than half of my shift. Still, as one friend put it:
"You got peed on last night. That should hold off karma for a few days."
True.
You know, lately Trippy the Cat has been getting into the "HI IT'S TIME TO PET ME WOW WHAT IS THAT YOU'RE DOING THAT IS LESS IMPORTANT THAN PETTING ME?" behaviors. I would like to put a stop to it for simple practicality's sake, but it's actually kinda sweet to know my cat wants quality time with me.
I am very pleasantly drowsy right now. Hence, bed!
Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us through Christ Jesus, to Him be the glory and honor and power forever. Amen.
Of course, there's a dissenting area of my brain right now (mom and dad always wondered, often aloud, why I was so frickin' argumentative all the time. Here's your answer, mom and pop; my brain is constantly arguing with ME. I'm just translating the internal monologue into external conversation). This area is whispering to me that life always WAS good, I was just too busy being stressed and whiny to notice.
Really, let's look at this logically (famous last words). Even though I had no car, I obviously had friends that loved me enough to never leave me rideless when I really needed it. There was a spectacular four-week span during which I could only work weekends and was rideless and mostly housebound during the week. That was probably one of the most depressing chunks of my life, but through it all I had loving friends who bent over backward to get me out of the house whenever possible, often to their own detriment.
And let's not forget another VERY important fact: I learned what it meant to fully rely on God. Nothing was stable. I was not assured of any income in my rideless state. My family is hundreds of miles away, might as well be light years sometimes. I have, during the nine-month course of all this, developed a massive guilt complex and during my worst moments I was sure that no matter what they said, my friends were growing sick of me and wouldn't stick with me much longer. All that I could be certain of was that Jesus loves me, that God was my helpmeet, and that all this was part of His plan. I came to Him for everything because I had NO recourse. Some days it took His grace and mercy just to give me the motivation to get out of bed.
I say this not to evoke a sense of self-pity, but to underline my gratitude to the One who got me through these times. My Jesus cared on the days when I was too heartsick and hope-starved to give a flying flaming unicorn poot in space. My Jesus was strong on the days I was weak as water, joyful in my depression, and hopeful in my despair.
Even in the last days when I spent most of my time chasing Corrie with a box of tissues and sniffling because I was too volatile to be left unattended (like a cooking omelette...filled with TNT), Jesus stayed by my side, and occasionally gave me a little nudge to ensure that I knew He was still watching.
Jesus: Hey, I've got this.
Me: But...but....STRESS!
Jesus:....did you not hear what I just said? I've GOT this.
Me: Is that what you had said?
Jesus: YES, that's what I HAD SAID.
So now, with a reliable car that by any reasonable standard I should not have the keys to, a steady job that I love in a town so precious I just want to stick it in my pocket, and friends that, despite my depressed self-assurances to the contrary, seem to have survived Hurricane Erin just fine and may even still think I'm nifty.
So ya see, nothing has really changed. I was blessed with a car, true. But God blessed me yesterday, last week, and last month. He will continue to bless me tomorrow, a year from now, and for the rest of my life. The fact that I got what I wanted today doesn't change the fact that He has blessed me, is blessing me, and will continue to bless me. It doesn't mean He loves me any more than He did during my trials. "My" car is just a tool to carry out His work.
Enough seriousness!
Yesterday I got pee in my eye.
Only I would have enough genius to get urine in my eyeball. To add insult to injury, I was in the middle of telling a new nurse that I was showing how to change the Foley bag that this particular procedure carried the risk of urine splashing when the tubes popped apart and sprayed me.
"Now you want to be really careful while you're disconnecting the two tubes, because they can very easily...*POP! SPLOOSH!* .................Do that."
The patient became concerned. "Did you get...hit?"
"In my eyes."
After I literally finished the procedure with my eyes closed, I left the room unceremoniously to summon the DON and flush my eyeballs.
Long story short, I had to throw away my last pair of contact lenses and bum a ride from the administrator to obtain my glasses from Lisa. Then I had to go to the ER.
No kidding.
Four hours of waiting in an emergency waiting room full of sick kids wasn't all bad, cause playing with kids is fun, but I feel bad for missing more than half of my shift. Still, as one friend put it:
"You got peed on last night. That should hold off karma for a few days."
True.
You know, lately Trippy the Cat has been getting into the "HI IT'S TIME TO PET ME WOW WHAT IS THAT YOU'RE DOING THAT IS LESS IMPORTANT THAN PETTING ME?" behaviors. I would like to put a stop to it for simple practicality's sake, but it's actually kinda sweet to know my cat wants quality time with me.
I am very pleasantly drowsy right now. Hence, bed!
Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us through Christ Jesus, to Him be the glory and honor and power forever. Amen.
Monday, October 19, 2009
When walking down memory lane, always bring a machete.
So in the course of talking to my friends this weekend, as I am wont to do, I came across an old memory that I forgot I had. It was still perfectly good, if a little dusty, and to be completely honest, I can't believe I've never blogged about it on these forums before.
This memory starts back in my last days of college or a little after. We were in a relatively new 2-bedroom apartment that, now that I think back on it, was the nicest apartment I've lived in to date. Ground floor, one story, large common area with a big kitchen, and I had a huge bathroom all to myself. My room was nicely placed to the east, so I got great sun in the morning and great shade in the evening. The apartment complex was new, but this is Texas, a fact which explains the ensuing story.
It was at the tail end of spring, and the world was beginning to show signs of the searing Central Texas summers that fostered me into a sun-hating adulthood. Things that were outside wanted inside into the cool air-conditioning, and those of us that were inside took great exception to that fact. This was caused by the reality that most of the creatures that wanted inside had more than four legs.
One day, as I was going about my life, I went into my lovely, huge bathroom that was mine and no one else's and found that it was occupied. It wasn't occupied by anyone that lived there or was visiting, or even by an animal, as this was in the days before I got her royal Fuzziness (also known as my cat).
No, it was a roach. And not just an ordinary roach. It was a gigantic Texas waterbuck roach, as big as the average Hissing Cockroach, and if you've never seen those, let me help you out with the imagery. Imagine a dog. The size of an elephant. Now give it six legs. Okay, you're caught up with the rest of us.
This roach was luxuriating in my bath tub, smoking a stoagie and sipping on a snifter full of cognac. When it saw me, it simply flashed a deuce and kept reading the newspaper.
I do not like roaches. During the dawning of mankind, the natural enmity that was supposed to be placed between woman and snake missed in its shot from me and hit the roaches. As I didn't have any Raid or Hotshot handy, I grabbed the nearest thing and began to spray. Crisp Linen Lysol does not work as well as Raid or Hotshot. I chased that thing around the bottom of the tub for fifteen minutes screaming "IT WON'T DIE! IT WON'T DIE!" I think it finally drowned. I washed it down the drain and sat for a moment trembling in a cloud of Crisp-Linen scented freshness. It took several shock therapy sessions, but at last I was able to forget the incident and use that bathroom again without a flame thrower.
But in the insect world, there is apparently a code that says when one of ours kills one of theirs, there must be a blood hunt. This particular roach's family apparently found it necessary to send Slaughterbob the Ender after me. A few weeks after my initial kill, I was on the phone with a friend, looked up, and saw that above the spinning fan blades on the ceiling, there was a roach even larger than the first one. It had Rambo-style camo face paint on, camo fatigues, and had a grenade launcher on his shiny little roach shoulder. I know I went dead silent on the phone, but in my head a thousand screaming voices cried out a bad word in unison.
Now, I know most of you that haven't seen one of these roaches will have a hard time believing me, but I swear it's true. The theme music from Mission Impossible began to play, and the roach dropped down between the spinning fan blades and hit the floor with a thud. I felt the ground shake, no lie. Then it did a serpentine body crawl under the nearby sofa. I jumped onto a chair, afraid that a smoldering grenade would shoot out from under that couch and cut me off at the ankles.
But no, what happened next was still more horrifying. I looked around the corner of the sofa tentatively to see the roach charging into my room. My lovely little cozy east-facing room. This meant war. I leapt down off my chair with the age-old southern battle cry of "Naaaah!" and ran after it.
The nearest missile I could find to throw was a shoe. Now, this was back in my Hippie vintage fatigue jacket and worn jeans days, so it wasn't a normal shoe that I seized, but a five-pound birkenstock. I threw it at the horse---I mean, roach, and watched in disbelief as the shoe began to scrabble across the floor propelled by six clicking legs. In an unprecidented show of bravery, I leapt on top of the shoe and jumped up and down, listening for the "crunch" that would signal victory. The crunch never came, but I was pitched off the top of the shoe by a mighty heave.
Okay, you want to play it hard, we'll play it hard, I thought. Whereupon I used my standard issue forklift to hoist one my nursing school textbooks that (back me up on this, Corrie) weighed as much as a third-world country. I lowered it down on top of the shoe as hard as I could without cracking a crater in the foundation, then went to hide in my closet.
To avoid dragging the story out any longer, it took a good half-hour for the textbook to stop moving, and I left it there for a few days before I had the nerve to pick it up and see the carnage underneath. The roach was dead, one middle finger extended toward me. I still have the tiny grenade launcher somewhere in storage.
Now, what did we learn from the epic Battle of The Roach? Simply this: Always keep a broadsword handy in the house.
This memory starts back in my last days of college or a little after. We were in a relatively new 2-bedroom apartment that, now that I think back on it, was the nicest apartment I've lived in to date. Ground floor, one story, large common area with a big kitchen, and I had a huge bathroom all to myself. My room was nicely placed to the east, so I got great sun in the morning and great shade in the evening. The apartment complex was new, but this is Texas, a fact which explains the ensuing story.
It was at the tail end of spring, and the world was beginning to show signs of the searing Central Texas summers that fostered me into a sun-hating adulthood. Things that were outside wanted inside into the cool air-conditioning, and those of us that were inside took great exception to that fact. This was caused by the reality that most of the creatures that wanted inside had more than four legs.
One day, as I was going about my life, I went into my lovely, huge bathroom that was mine and no one else's and found that it was occupied. It wasn't occupied by anyone that lived there or was visiting, or even by an animal, as this was in the days before I got her royal Fuzziness (also known as my cat).
No, it was a roach. And not just an ordinary roach. It was a gigantic Texas waterbuck roach, as big as the average Hissing Cockroach, and if you've never seen those, let me help you out with the imagery. Imagine a dog. The size of an elephant. Now give it six legs. Okay, you're caught up with the rest of us.
This roach was luxuriating in my bath tub, smoking a stoagie and sipping on a snifter full of cognac. When it saw me, it simply flashed a deuce and kept reading the newspaper.
I do not like roaches. During the dawning of mankind, the natural enmity that was supposed to be placed between woman and snake missed in its shot from me and hit the roaches. As I didn't have any Raid or Hotshot handy, I grabbed the nearest thing and began to spray. Crisp Linen Lysol does not work as well as Raid or Hotshot. I chased that thing around the bottom of the tub for fifteen minutes screaming "IT WON'T DIE! IT WON'T DIE!" I think it finally drowned. I washed it down the drain and sat for a moment trembling in a cloud of Crisp-Linen scented freshness. It took several shock therapy sessions, but at last I was able to forget the incident and use that bathroom again without a flame thrower.
But in the insect world, there is apparently a code that says when one of ours kills one of theirs, there must be a blood hunt. This particular roach's family apparently found it necessary to send Slaughterbob the Ender after me. A few weeks after my initial kill, I was on the phone with a friend, looked up, and saw that above the spinning fan blades on the ceiling, there was a roach even larger than the first one. It had Rambo-style camo face paint on, camo fatigues, and had a grenade launcher on his shiny little roach shoulder. I know I went dead silent on the phone, but in my head a thousand screaming voices cried out a bad word in unison.
Now, I know most of you that haven't seen one of these roaches will have a hard time believing me, but I swear it's true. The theme music from Mission Impossible began to play, and the roach dropped down between the spinning fan blades and hit the floor with a thud. I felt the ground shake, no lie. Then it did a serpentine body crawl under the nearby sofa. I jumped onto a chair, afraid that a smoldering grenade would shoot out from under that couch and cut me off at the ankles.
But no, what happened next was still more horrifying. I looked around the corner of the sofa tentatively to see the roach charging into my room. My lovely little cozy east-facing room. This meant war. I leapt down off my chair with the age-old southern battle cry of "Naaaah!" and ran after it.
The nearest missile I could find to throw was a shoe. Now, this was back in my Hippie vintage fatigue jacket and worn jeans days, so it wasn't a normal shoe that I seized, but a five-pound birkenstock. I threw it at the horse---I mean, roach, and watched in disbelief as the shoe began to scrabble across the floor propelled by six clicking legs. In an unprecidented show of bravery, I leapt on top of the shoe and jumped up and down, listening for the "crunch" that would signal victory. The crunch never came, but I was pitched off the top of the shoe by a mighty heave.
Okay, you want to play it hard, we'll play it hard, I thought. Whereupon I used my standard issue forklift to hoist one my nursing school textbooks that (back me up on this, Corrie) weighed as much as a third-world country. I lowered it down on top of the shoe as hard as I could without cracking a crater in the foundation, then went to hide in my closet.
To avoid dragging the story out any longer, it took a good half-hour for the textbook to stop moving, and I left it there for a few days before I had the nerve to pick it up and see the carnage underneath. The roach was dead, one middle finger extended toward me. I still have the tiny grenade launcher somewhere in storage.
Now, what did we learn from the epic Battle of The Roach? Simply this: Always keep a broadsword handy in the house.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Life is a Highway!
It's over. The transportation battle that's lasted nearly a year has ended. God is good, but God pushes. When God pushes, worlds move, lives change, and people are driven beyond the boundaries of what they thought they could endure into the realms of the beautifully impossible.
I am whiny by nature. I realize that I waste more time whining than I do watching cartoons, which is considerable. I know it must be trying for my friends to be around me sometimes, and it may not seem like it, but I control a great deal of the complaining I am naturally inclined to do. I was born to have a positive disposition, but things happen. Nevertheless, the strains of the last few months have gone beyond the realm of complaint. Eighty or ninety hour weeks at work, extra bills, and a snowfall of guilt left my knees buckling under pressure. Now, God is good, and provided me with a plethora of work opportunities as well as a lucrative and flexible permanent position, but the human psyche and body are fragile things. I spent most of my thirty minute drive to and from work begging God for grace, patience, and energy. The time I had alone with Him was priceless, and allowed me to see that He has spent the last nine months breaking me, melting me down, refining me, scraping off the impurities, and shining me up into something completely new, beautiful, and more reflective of Him.
Now, before I go any further, I've got to give credit where credit is due and say that because of a few key people in my life, I managed to get through the entire nine months of carlessness without having to rent, which was good because apparently for me renting a car is next to impossible without my liver, my firstborn child, a note signed by my mother, God, AND George Washington, and a live Rhysis Monkey in a golden cage.
This blog would like to thank:
Jennifer and David Berger, for retail car assistance, endless hours of chauffering, and the use of your car for a great many of those nine months.
Lisa Gonzalez, Tonya Chancey, and Corrie Moore, not only for the loan of each of your cars for a time, but also for your neverending prayers, emotional support, and astounding patience. Oh, and could one of you pick up some trash bags on your way home from the store?
Laura Matheny, you know what you did.
Julia and Exo Martinez; Exo, I know I probably took a few years off your life when I was driving your car, but it was greatly appreciated, and I promise I never drove carelessly.
Julia and Micah Sprague, you guys are the bomb. Thanks for giving me a chance to learn what it's like to drive a pickup. Dwight is the best!
I know I must be leaving people out. There are countless more that gave me rides, prayed me through hard days, and offered their cars for use but were never actually taken up on it. Thanking you would be damning you with faint praise. I can't count the number of times I would have given up without you all. There is no doubt in my mind that God put each one of you in my life because He delights in giving His children beautiful people to befriend. You are all beautiful, and I pray every day that I can find a way to bless you like you've blessed me.
"God is good, but I am weak. But God is good."
I said that last week when talking to my dad about my stress level. I know my parents have been worried for me, and I have no doubt that they've worn out the doors of God's Throneroom knocking for me. I admit, I was a little worried myself toward the end. As much as it appalls me that a simple transportation problem could twist me into this many knots, at least now I know my limits. Independence was a stronghold in my life, and God broke it into a million pieces, forcing me into dependence on Him and those around me. So much of that battle is too personal for me to write about on a public forum right now, but every step has been a new epic of growth, and I wouldn't trade it for a thousand cars (mostly because that kind of income would put me into a higher tax bracket, but I digress).
Since when does the God of the universe care for such minutiae?
Since when does an omnipotent Being concern Himself with loving mortals so completely?
Since when is the Creator and Destroyer of Worlds so tender toward an awkward little girl from College Station, Texas?
I don't know where He got the idea to create and love such imperfection, but I'm sure glad He did.
I am whiny by nature. I realize that I waste more time whining than I do watching cartoons, which is considerable. I know it must be trying for my friends to be around me sometimes, and it may not seem like it, but I control a great deal of the complaining I am naturally inclined to do. I was born to have a positive disposition, but things happen. Nevertheless, the strains of the last few months have gone beyond the realm of complaint. Eighty or ninety hour weeks at work, extra bills, and a snowfall of guilt left my knees buckling under pressure. Now, God is good, and provided me with a plethora of work opportunities as well as a lucrative and flexible permanent position, but the human psyche and body are fragile things. I spent most of my thirty minute drive to and from work begging God for grace, patience, and energy. The time I had alone with Him was priceless, and allowed me to see that He has spent the last nine months breaking me, melting me down, refining me, scraping off the impurities, and shining me up into something completely new, beautiful, and more reflective of Him.
Now, before I go any further, I've got to give credit where credit is due and say that because of a few key people in my life, I managed to get through the entire nine months of carlessness without having to rent, which was good because apparently for me renting a car is next to impossible without my liver, my firstborn child, a note signed by my mother, God, AND George Washington, and a live Rhysis Monkey in a golden cage.
This blog would like to thank:
Jennifer and David Berger, for retail car assistance, endless hours of chauffering, and the use of your car for a great many of those nine months.
Lisa Gonzalez, Tonya Chancey, and Corrie Moore, not only for the loan of each of your cars for a time, but also for your neverending prayers, emotional support, and astounding patience. Oh, and could one of you pick up some trash bags on your way home from the store?
Laura Matheny, you know what you did.
Julia and Exo Martinez; Exo, I know I probably took a few years off your life when I was driving your car, but it was greatly appreciated, and I promise I never drove carelessly.
Julia and Micah Sprague, you guys are the bomb. Thanks for giving me a chance to learn what it's like to drive a pickup. Dwight is the best!
I know I must be leaving people out. There are countless more that gave me rides, prayed me through hard days, and offered their cars for use but were never actually taken up on it. Thanking you would be damning you with faint praise. I can't count the number of times I would have given up without you all. There is no doubt in my mind that God put each one of you in my life because He delights in giving His children beautiful people to befriend. You are all beautiful, and I pray every day that I can find a way to bless you like you've blessed me.
"God is good, but I am weak. But God is good."
I said that last week when talking to my dad about my stress level. I know my parents have been worried for me, and I have no doubt that they've worn out the doors of God's Throneroom knocking for me. I admit, I was a little worried myself toward the end. As much as it appalls me that a simple transportation problem could twist me into this many knots, at least now I know my limits. Independence was a stronghold in my life, and God broke it into a million pieces, forcing me into dependence on Him and those around me. So much of that battle is too personal for me to write about on a public forum right now, but every step has been a new epic of growth, and I wouldn't trade it for a thousand cars (mostly because that kind of income would put me into a higher tax bracket, but I digress).
Since when does the God of the universe care for such minutiae?
Since when does an omnipotent Being concern Himself with loving mortals so completely?
Since when is the Creator and Destroyer of Worlds so tender toward an awkward little girl from College Station, Texas?
I don't know where He got the idea to create and love such imperfection, but I'm sure glad He did.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Selah
God of the universe, above, on, and beneath the earth;
Let my home be where You are.
Let my familiar ground be the space between Your arms.
Let my resting place be the hollow of Your heart.
Let Your glory be my ecstasy.
Let Your wisdom be my logic.
Let Your sufficiency be my plenty.
Let Your power be my refuge.
Let Your fame be my confidence.
Let Your beauty be my crowning glory.
Let Your tirelessness be my endurance.
Let me drink in Your glory as I sing Your name in the smallest voice of one of Your weakest creations. Embrace my fragile frame and mix it with Your steel. Place Your armor on me, but keep the frail heart within dependent always on Your mercy, forgiveness, and grace.
And Lord, when I fail, fall, and hurt myself, those around me, and even Your name with my flaws and sinfulness, pull me through the raging fire of Your refinery and bring me out again, just a little more fit to reflect dimly the image of an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-present, all-loving Creator.
Let my home be where You are.
Let my familiar ground be the space between Your arms.
Let my resting place be the hollow of Your heart.
Let Your glory be my ecstasy.
Let Your wisdom be my logic.
Let Your sufficiency be my plenty.
Let Your power be my refuge.
Let Your fame be my confidence.
Let Your beauty be my crowning glory.
Let Your tirelessness be my endurance.
Let me drink in Your glory as I sing Your name in the smallest voice of one of Your weakest creations. Embrace my fragile frame and mix it with Your steel. Place Your armor on me, but keep the frail heart within dependent always on Your mercy, forgiveness, and grace.
And Lord, when I fail, fall, and hurt myself, those around me, and even Your name with my flaws and sinfulness, pull me through the raging fire of Your refinery and bring me out again, just a little more fit to reflect dimly the image of an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-present, all-loving Creator.
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