Five Minute Friday: Mercy

"Have mercy!"

My kids have been watching episodes of "Full House" lately.  To say that Uncle Jesse has a thing for women would be a understatement.  In the first couple of seasons he goes from woman to woman ... to woman to woman to woman (ad nauseum) and with each innuendo, each suggestive flutter of eyelids or swing of the hips, and in response to every pouty pair of lips that moves to proposition him, he declares with a groan and a lolling of the eyes, "Have mercy."

Just who is he talking to, anyway?

I don't remember any episodes where he reflects back on his string of shallow, meaningless relationships.  But, having survived more than a few myself, I can imagine what he might think if he did.

In Season 4, John Stamos's character marries and though he initially speaks his catchphrase in relation to Becky quite a few times, my kids tell me that by the last couple of seasons his exclamations of "Have mercy" have all but ceased.  Maybe that indicates he's maturing.  Maybe it diminishes as the tedium of marriage and parenthood sets in.

Maybe the producers got sick of hearing it, too.

The show began when I was in college, and I remember finding Mr. Stamos quite attractive, though his flighty dating habits left a bit to be desired.  It would still be a few years down the road, though, before I recognized my own propensity to do the same thing (without the groaning catchphrase, of course).  I had a few long-term relationships, but otherwise I tended to flit from guy to guy, seeking validation, every successful chase reinforcing my sense of self-value.

Years later, I would apologise to more than one of them on Facebook.

I finally gave up.  I realised that what I was doing was self-destructive, not to mention hurtful to others, and I gave up.  I begged God to strip me of my restlessness, to make me satisfied with Him alone.  With a groan of regret, I cried, "Lord, have mercy!"

Eventually, I met my husband, who I have already said I chose over Orlando Bloom.  I suppose I could also say I chose him over the Jesse Katsopolises of the world.

As it turns out, I would need more mercy along the way and God knew just the man to give it to me.



"Where is the god who can compare with you— wiping the slate clean of guilt, Turning a blind eye, a deaf ear, to the past sins of your purged and precious people? You don’t nurse your anger and don’t stay angry long, for mercy is your specialty."  Micah 7:18 (The Message)

 
Linking up with Lisa Jo Baker and a community of bloggers who write on her prompts every Friday.  Click on the button above to find out more or join in the fun.

Parched

“If the rain spoils our picnic, but saves a farmer's crop, who are we to say it shouldn't rain?” ~Tom Barrett

 
“Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.” ~John Updike

I helped my daughter study for a science test Tuesday morning.  As we discussed the differences between rills, gullies, and rivers, alluvial plains and deltas, erosion and deposition, I could hear the steady patter of rain on our tin roof.

It’s a beautiful sound – a sound that I missed when we were stateside last year, where houses are more sound proof.  And a sound that we often take for granted here because, as we explained time and again to friends at home, our seasons generally include “rainy” and “less-rainy.”

Though this is the “less-rainy” season, it has been exceptionally, unusually dry.  Typically “dry” season isn’t so much, but this past few months has been refreshingly cool and dry.  Many times I have walked outside, bundled in a sweater, and relished the crisp “autumnal” air.  Occasionally I could even hear the sound of our marching band practicing down at the high school, and it would take me back to the homecoming game, crunchy leaf, pumpkin-and-hayride days of yesteryear.

But, despite the personal thrill I found in these deja vous moments, reports of water tanks (which collect rain water for drinking) running dry have become more frequent.  We have never run out, or been in danger of it, because we use (the rather dirty) river water for many things, including showers and laundry.  But some families (understandably) prefer to use the cleaner “tank water” for these purposes, especially during the rainy season when the supply is readily replenished.

Unfortunately, it’s hard to predict when the regular, heavy rains will come to an end, and occasionally people neglect or forget to switch their plumbing valves before it’s too late.

An equally important complication of the drought, most PNGns rely almost completely on home-grown produce for their sustenance, and the gardens are suffering, too.

But it was as I was mowing our lawn last Saturday (I should specify that I was mowing our scattered weeds, as the grass had only almost imperceptibly lengthened since the last time I had mowed two weeks prior) that I noticed the fissures. 

The light sprinkles (locally referred to as “giaman” rain, or false rain) received sporadically over the past few weeks had done nothing to satisfy the thirsty ground.

And now, even over the roar of the little Honda engine, I could hear the parched earth crying out, the craters begging for relief.

Great canyons of desiccation, desperate for refreshment.

 

And I realised I could relate.  Can you?

I could see myself in those great, dehydrated cracks.  The past few months have been difficult, and I have tried to make it in my own strength.  My soul has cried out, desperate for spiritual and emotional refreshment.  And though I know the path of true relief must include God and His Word, I have neglected far too often to water my thirsty soul.

Neglected the very Word we are here to see produced in more than 300 languages where people are even more parched and desperate.

What’s wrong with me?

Yesterday, our maintenance department began grading the road I normally take between home and school. I thought this was a good idea since it is rather steep and I regularly try to skate downhill on the piles of loose gravel. 

It’s a medivac waiting to happen.

But last night it rained.  I mean, really rained.  Like a good, steady downpour.  The rain I could still hear tickling our roof during the morning hydrogeology cram session.

After walking down the freshly graded, but unpacked, road, my sandals were caked with a good inch and a half of mud (which, to be honest, is quite a common occurrence).  I kicked them off, washed them, and went barefoot for the first couple hours of school.  (Don’t tell the kids.)

But I was not complaining.  Relief is in sight.

Yes, Lord, send the rain!

“Many a man curses the rain that falls upon his head, and knows not that it brings abundance to drive away the hunger.” ~Saint Basil

Five Minute Friday: Red

I don’t get a great deal of alone time at home.  Usually when the kids are at school, I am at school, so last week when I found myself working at home for a couple hours in the afternoon, it seemed strange.  After mixing and kneading and shaping my hamburger buns, I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes.  The largish plate glass window above the sink overlooks the backyard garden, and even though winter will soon be winding up here, the flowers are in full bloom.

I moved to grab a dish towel and when I glanced back up, I saw a flash of red – my daughter was coming up the hill toward the back door.

I smiled and my insides got all happy.

My sweet oldest has a bright, solid red hoodie, purchased in California when we were on furlough last year.  Somehow it was colder than we’d expected when we arrived in LA in March.  She chose red, and as she wears it nearly every day, I usually have little trouble spotting her in a crowd.  

She has endured numerous references to a certain basket-wielding, grandmother-seeking fairy tale character, generally either sporting a snarky adolescent grin or staring blankly, lips pursed in a straight line in a look that says, “Seriously?  Can’t you do better than that?”

I had relished the time alone, but somehow knowing she was coming made my heart leap.  It would be just me and her here … a phenomenon perhaps more rare than my being here alone.

I continued to wipe and put away the dishes, expecting the back door to open at any moment.

But, the moment never came.

I leaned slightly over the sink again and saw the flash of colour again – in the same spot - this time recognizing its shape as that of this bunch of amaryllis.

The corners of my mouth, and my heart, fell.

Maybe next time.

Written in conjunction with a community of bloggers who meet virtually over Lisa Jo Baker’s weekly Five Minute Friday prompt.  Click the button above to find out more or join in.

Five Minute Friday: Worship

A few weeks ago, during the Tok Pisin Sunday School retreat weekend, I was charged with conducting a short course on drama with a group of local children.  I did not know how many kids would choose the class and was a bit concerned about what particular drama I was even going to teach them.

They would be performing it in the Tok Pisin worship service the next morning.  But no pressure.

During the week prior, God began to formulate an idea in my mind.  It seemed like a good idea, but as it was just bare bones, it was still kind of hard to tell.  All I could do was pray and wait for the idea to flesh out.

And try not to panic.

Finally, the night before, the idea felt complete. I found a song that worked with the mime God had given, and – ever the planner – I timed each action out down to the second.

The next afternoon, I walked down the hill to see what awaited me.

I had four boys, all under the age of 12. 

I took a deep breath and launched into “what is drama” and “why drama” and “how drama,” stumbling over the language barrier many times in the process.  They looked at me as if I actually knew what in the world I was doing, and I plowed on.

Eventually we blocked the skit, discussing the meanings of the various ideas represented.  I still wasn’t sure if it was all computing.

When it came time to do a first run-through, my mind remained fixed on technicalities such as “be sure your body is angled toward the audience,” “exaggerate your movements a bit more,” “make sure you pick up all the broken pieces of the paper heart,” and “slow down that scene right there so we stay with the music.”

But by the second or third run-through, though their backs were still often to the audience and they did not always finish with the song, I began to see with different eyes.

These kids brought me to tears, and, as they told a story, I found myself worshipping.

I was amazed.

Not only amazed at the skill wrapped up in these four small individuals, but at the hearts within that I could see beating with innocence, fresh perspective, and a desire to honour the Lord.  Amazed at their ability to take something God had completed just hours before in the recesses of my mind and make it come to fullness of moving, convicting life.

I worshipped during the fourth run-through, and the fifth, and the sixth …

The next morning, I felt (personally) totally discombobulated.  Running up behind stage as the service started to make sure all the needed props were in place.  Emerging, walking through the now-playing worship band, and sitting down again.  Remembering during the third song that I had forgotten to give the flash drive with the mp3 to the sound guys, and then realising that said flash drive was now back stage.  Making a scene, again, as I did what I had to do to get the song from behind the curtain to the sound crew stationed at the rear of the room.  Making my way backstage for the actual event (we were now third in line behind tambourines and dance), only to realise that the two red paper hearts that I had cut just that morning, and that “Jisas” needed to have in his pockets, had been left at home.  Emerging from backstage again, slinking my way through the tambourine players and back to my seat to get my keys, running across the street to get some red paper, quickly cutting two red hearts, and rushing back to the meeting house as the tambourine players were finishing.   Disappearing behind the curtain and praying desperately the only scenes that anyone would pay attention to would be the ones at centre stage instead of those involving me and my forgetfulness.

Mortified and fearful that I had totally distracted a meeting house full of church-goers beyond the ability to truly experience any of this, I drew open the curtain.

As my boys shared their drama with the crowd, I was again mesmerised. 

Later in the service, I found out that others had been brought face-to-face with God as well.

“I’m so glad I got to see the children’s drama,” one national woman expressed during the sharing time at the end of the service, the end of the weekend retreat. “It was very challenging for me.”

Another national gentleman elaborated even further.

“The boys in this drama really blessed me,” he said, his thoughtful eyes sweeping the crowd.  “It made me cry.  And it reminded me that God must have his rightful place in my heart.”

I claim no right to or genius behind this drama, and certainly not behind the children who shared it.  But I am grateful that God used me and four small boys to deliver its message.

That once again, God chose to use weak and broken vessels to draw people to worship.

"Your worship must engage your spirit in the pursuit of truth. That’s the kind of people the Father is out looking for: those who are simply and honestly themselves before him in their worship. God is sheer being itself—Spirit. Those who worship him must do it out of their very being, their spirits, their true selves ...."  John 4:23b-24, The Message

Written on Monday in conjunction with a group of bloggers who meet virtually to respond to a given prompt each Friday … or thereabouts.  To learn more or join in, click the button above.