Blessing God Amid Life

I like to sing. Give me 40 minutes of singin' and only 20 minutes of preachin' any Sunday. Or maybe 50/10.

A friend once shared a story about how a man in her church was quite offended by the song, "Blessed Be Your Name," written by Matt Redman. Wasn't a worship song. Wasn't uplifting. Had no place in the church. Ouch! There's a bitter porcupine. Wenda said, "Reminds me of me. How I'd rather not let God into the hurting places in my life. I'd just like to lock Him out and only acknowledge him in the good stuff. Seems like it would be the other way around, but for me it's not."

Boy, did she relate to me.

When I found out I was pregnant with baby #5, I wasn't the least bit excited. In fact, I'd say I was majorly ticked off. ANGRY. Hubby wasn't too thrilled either, but he adjusted to it quicker than I did. He's mature like that. While we never found out the sex of our other 4 critters, I told hubby I needed to on this one because I needed something--anything--to help get me excited...or at least help me not be angry anymore. Pink baby girl clothes scream happy. I'd have eaten pink baby girl clothes if doing so would have made me happy.

Well, one Sunday morning for some reason, hubby needed me to fill in for the guy who normally worked the Power Point/Media Shout for the music during first service morning worship. I figured doing it would give me something to focus on instead of worshiping a God I was ticked off at.

The first two songs were no problem. Then "Blessed Be Your Name" came on.

Blessed Be Your Name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name

Easy to read. Easy to hear. But the next weren't so...

Blessed Be Your name
When I'm found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed Be Your name

By this point my throat tightened, eyes teared up, my lungs constricted...

Every blessing You pour out
I'll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say...

By here, I couldn't breath and had to force myself to push the button to change slides...

See, I was okay with blessing God when "when the sun's shining down on me, when the world's 'all as it should be," but I certainly didn't want to bless, praise, honor, glorify Him when I was "on the road marked with suffering." Not that being pregnant was suffering, but being pregnant when I didn't want to be certainly felt like suffering to me. So I could freely say there was "pain in the offering," pain in blessing His name that I felt it was easier to stay angry at God.

Call me crazy, but I'm a pain avoider. I didn't like to hurt for myself so why would I want to hurt for God?

Somehow I kept my emotions bottled until we got home. Which was foolish. I should have felt free to weep at church. Only we hadn't told anyone I was pregnant, and I think I was at least three months along. Shoot, maybe more because I think I'd already been to the doctor and I hadn't gone in until I was 4 months along, which garnered me lots of lectures from the nurses. Actually, I don't think we told many people I was pregnant at any time during the pregnancy because tons of them were shocked when critter 5 and I showed up to church the Sunday after delivering her.

Anyhoo, now when I look at our precious #5, I can't imagine not having her. When I was typing this, she walked in my office and smiled at me. Needless to say, I had to pick her up and put her in my lap. She sipped my Vanilla Coke and said, "Mmm. That's good coffee."

Before I take the confused child to Starbucks, lemme finish my story...

Last spring, I did the Beth Moore ESTHER Bible study. During week four's video session, Beth talked about fear. She said, "We can protect ourself right out of our callings." Boy, do I know how to do that with my writing. But God didn't want me to focus on my shallow writing fears. He decided to smack me upside the heart with my deepest fear. Eventually. Here's what I wrote in my notes:

"Courage is when you look _______ in the face. Don't deny it. Deny it's victory over you. You may be one brave decision away from a new path--from your calling, destiny. The #1 command in the Bible: DO NOT BE AFRAID. We all cherish fear so closely that we can shed it even when told to. Psalm 138:8. Can you imagine living without fearing _______? Do you believe a good week is only a happy accident? Proverbs 31. Most of what we fear will never happen to us. Although this is true, Satan will keep threatening us with it over and over again. WHAT IF is an acronym for I FEAR."

In the listener guide, Beth wrote this: "And if _________, then God will take care of me."

She challenged us to find what that ______ was in our lives. What did we fear on a daily basis? What even was our deepest, most crippling fear?

Ladies all over the room were in tears. Not me. I was, well, kinda peturbed.

How the heck was I gonna confront my deepest fear if I didn't know what it was. Oh, I have fears which you can read if you click on this link. Driving across a bridge. Heights. Swimming in a lake, river, or ocean where human-eating fish live. And so on. But those are only fears I have for to garner sympathy. I don't really fear those things. Well, maybe I do the fish.

So I told my friend Tanya as we were leaving the classroom (paraphrasing here), "I feel abnormal because I don't have any crippling fears. Surely I have a fear. A real fear. In fact, this week I'm gonna pray that God shows me a real fear. Ooh, I'm excited!" I won't describe the "look" she gave me. Just between us, I think she's confident I'm abnormal.

Three days later...NOTHING. Still no fear.

I even complained to my husband. I'm sure he thought I was abnormal for wanting a fear. I was considering pondering the very idea that perhaps maybe I was abnormal. (See note above about Tanya.)

Not but a day after I'd decided to live with my disappointment in not having a fear to conquer in Jesus' name, God opened my eyes. He played a song on my heart. Then again, it could have been on the radio.

Blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

I had a fear. A real fear. Getting pregnant. My fear began after baby #3. He wasn't planned. After I had him, I began to dread when Aunt Flo was late in visiting. I know: TMI. Do you know how much pregnancy and babies cost? Several years, a miscarriage, and a traumatic deliver of baby #4 later, I was emotionally crippled with the fear of getting pregnant again. So can you understand why I was so angry at God when I realized I was pregnant with #5? All my fears were answered with her.

Oh my satellites dishes! That was not the fear I'd wanted to face. I figured God would show me I had a fear of creepy crawly things or not making it to the potty quick enough when I was in the middle of Wal-Mart. I wanted a cool fear.

Every blessing You pour out
I'll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

I had to pray my way though the song, though my fears, though my lack of trust in God knowing what was best for me. I had to reach a point where I could say "If I got pregnant again, God WILL take care of me and I WILL be okay."

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

Funny thing is this past fall when I was at a doc appointment and the nurse said, "Is there any possibility you could be pregnant?" (a routine question), I shrugged and said, "Probably not, but if I were, it's no biggie."

So I'm back to where I was when I walked out of the Esther video session four: happily relishing my fake fear of driving on bridges and swimming where the human-eating fish live.

Boy, does it feel nice.

Love the song? Listen to it HERE

Blessed be Your name
When the sun's shining down on me
When the world's 'all as it should be'
Blessed be Your name

"For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope." Jeremiah 29:11

To read more about Matt Redman's inspiration behind the song, click here.

What do you fear? What lesson has God ever taken you through to teach you not to fear?

Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Recenty as I was painting one of the bathrooms in my house, I learned that over seven million tons of plastic is spanning our oceans. A vortex--gyre--of marine litter. No joke. Apparently "the existance of plastic in the oceans is causing infertility." Considering my feet have dabbled in ocean waters (hmm, does the gulf of Mexico count?) twice since I got married almost seventeen years ago and since I have five children, it's obvious the plastic-infected waters have not sterilized my womb. Of course, I could merely be an anomaly.

Could be or could not be an anomaly, that is the question of which I'd need at least half a day to ponder.

Anyhoo, this Great Pacific Garbage Patch spans "the size of Texas." Texas!?! I've been to Texas. It's huge-er than huge and that's not just the hair on the women. (On a side note, I read the other day that you might be a redneck if your stock portfolio consists of two sheep and a goat.) Get this: Imagine Texas-size trash heap floating aimlessly amid all those adorable human-eating sea critters....

Oh. My. Satellite Dishes. Poor SpongeBob and Patrick.

Well, I couldn't ignore this dreadful news so I googled for some pictures to show y'all.  Only I couldn't find any. Oh, I found YouTube videos, even one from a news segment from a national network morning show, but no actual pictures of the vortex so I'm limited to showing you this diagram. Dreadful isn't it?

My mind is swimming . . . I mean, spinning. But what's even more dreadful is the fact no one has pictures of this ginormous garbage. In this crazy day and electronic age when everyone but me has a mobile phone, surely someone with the time could mosey on out to that plastic-filled gyre and take a pic. I want a pic. While in labor with child #5, I suffered through six hours of the Anna Nicole burial trial. I freakin' deserve a pic!

Sadly, it's impossible to take a picture of this watery trash. Why? Experts say, "Since plastics break down to ever smaller polymers, concentrations of submerged particles are not visible from space, nor do they appear as a continuous debris field. Instead, the patch is defined as an area in which the mass of plastic debris in the upper water column is significantly higher than average."

Huh? You lost me at polymer. Is that a cousin to polyester? Machine washable or dry clean only?

So, in other less scientificky words, the reason for no pictures is because "[the garbage patch] is [a] huge pile of trash collectively, but trash so small individually that the patch doesn’t show up."

Oh.

If I understand correctly it's like air: unseeable, untouchable, untasteable, made up of bajillions of oxygen atoms that are so utterly small that we can see them even though we can breathe them. Obviously since I need oxygen to survive and since I'm still breathing, then, ergo, air does exist. Ergo, the Garbage Patch of the Great Pacific and other oceans exists.

Can you hear me sighing?

Call me Doubting Gina if you wish, but for me to believe this votex of swirling semisynthetic organic amorphous solid exists, I want proof. I want a picture! I want evidence! I want thousands of people who believe the Garbage Patch exist to suffer torture, imprisonment, and even death in the name of their faith in the existence of this littery waterworld!!!!!

Oh dear. I just typed five exclamation points. Perhaps I'm being a tad dramatic.

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters. Then God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. And God saw that the light was good. Then he separated the light from the darkness. God called the light "day" and the darkness "night." And evening passed and morning came, marking the first day.

~Genesis 1:1-4

For many people, the problem with faith is the fact that faith doesn't prove God exists. You know, faith doesn't prove that "in the beginning," God created anything. The age-old faith issue. Does He or doesn't He. In my less-thn-forty-years-lifetime, I've learned that anyone who doesn't believe in God says those who do are narrow-minded. Well, to me, narrow-minded signals an unwillingness to consider other possibilities than what we believe.

I believe God exists and that He created the heavens, the earth, and all things in and around them in six literal 24-hour days. I'd go to my death for that belief. However, I'm also willing to honestly listen to someone explain to me why He doesn't and He didn't.

If you don't believe God exists or that He created what the Bible said He created...well, are you honestly willing to listen to someone explain why s/he believes God does and did create everything? Or are you going to be narrow-minded and insist you're right and no other truth can possibly exist?

Does God exist? Click here for some answers or here or take a trip to an Ohio museum.

“But without faith it is impossible to please Him, for he who comes to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him.” ~Hebrews 11:6


Serious question of the Day: Ever learned anything cool/interesting/weird about creation or the existance of God? If so, what was it?
 
Non-serious question of the Day: What summer movie are you most looking forward to?

Hercules, Superman, Mr. Romance

“Where have all good men gone, and where are all the gods?

Where’s the street-wise Hercules to fight the rising odds?”

Nothing like a good man to make a woman go wild.

A good man?!? Who spiked my chocolate milk? No woman goes wild for a “good” man. Nope. Only bad boys make us pant, roar, and rip our bodices.

One minor problem: The quintessential Bad Boy smokes, dips, and chews and sleeps with any gal or two. Yuck. Call me a prude, but smoking, dipping, and chewing makes a man’s mouth and lungs look like my mother-in-law’s meatloaf. Blech.

“It’s gonna take a superman to sweep me off my feet.”

At one time or another we wanted to be Lois on the balcony or Mary Jane braless in a skimpy shirt in the rain. Okay, maybe not the braless part because we're good Christian girls. But, ahhh, the thrill of the rescue and the magic carpet ride.

Only one minor problem: You can’t count on Superhero--any more than Bad Boy--to be home with your kids have the flu or the toilet is clogged because he’s always off saving the freakin’ world. Face it. Lex Luther and Doc Ock just aren’t gonna pause in their quest for total world domination while your SuperSweetheart empties the litterbox. So you’re stuck with the poopy deed. How romantic.

(No offense intended toward anyone offended by my use of freakin' or poopy. I would say using the words is a habit I'm trying to break, but my dear friend Dina is our resident Inky nun and I feel led to adorn some habits for her benefit.)

Okay, I know many a romance reader and writer insist Bad Boys will always be the ultimate romantic heroes because they’re always redeemable by the “right woman,” but, for me, having the right heroine isn’t enough to compensate for an unrespectable hero. Let Bad Boy keep his meatloaf lungs and mouth to himself and Debbie and all the guys she did in Dallas. The truth is the Bad Boy who lived his life sampling the world’s buffet of women (and doesn’t have a STD or two) isn’t a hero.

He’s a cliché.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think a guy has to be a virgin to be a romance novel--or real life--hero, either. But a true Bad Boy is more than an Iron Chef of Sex. *sigh* I miss not watching the Food Network, but that's another blog post.

We all have our idea of the perfect guy, the perfect hero, the perfect Mr. Romance. Only a hero is more than an archetype. He is more than a “caricature” of masculinity. A hero is more than a sexy body with a sexy grin and a sexy voice. (Although those are quite nice, Gina whispers.)

“He’s gotta be larger than life.”

A hero--no matter his archetype or appearance--is dangerous to somebody. His very existence threatens, intimidates, and costs somebody something.

He can’t be ignored.

He won’t be ignored.

Maximus, William Wallace, Neo, Aragorn, Jack Dawson, Jake Sully, Robert Parr, Buddy.

Yes, I mean Buddy from Elf. He was dangerous to the men and women who didn’t believe in Santa, who didn’t believe that inside each person was someone special. His joy pushed people outside their status quo and made a positive difference. Only a dangerous man can do that.

A hero--no matter his archetype or appearance--isn’t dangerous to the heroine. Oh, he definitely destroys her peace of mind, yet he isn’t a physical threat. His very existence confuses, frustrates, and adds something to her life. The poor dear can’t ignore him no matter how determined she is to try, and then we the readers are screaming at him for driving her crazy and screaming at her to give him a heavier dose of his own medicine. Make him suffer, lass, make him suffer! You go, Princess Fiona!

So you turn the page hoping for the first kiss and the second one and the third because you know the kisses will come. Why?

A hero--no matter his archetype and appearance--is devoted to the heroine. But since all men are not all alike, how he shows his devotion depends on who he is. A white knight will save his damsel’s life. The hunk-next-door will baby-sit. A hero’s devotion can be as simple as taking her out to dinner after a long day’s work or more complicated like helping her realize she’s a good mother even if her house is never clean and her son has an affinity for peeing in the flower garden.

“Somewhere after midnight,

in my wildest fantasy…

there’s someone reaching back for me”

“We read romance novels not for the handsome heroes, not for the steamy loves scenes, but for the involvement of the man in the relationship.” ~Vicki Lewis Thompson, author of NERD IN SHINING ARMOR

A man actively involved in the relationship will make his woman go wild. In a heroine’s wildest fantasy, her hero is reaching for her. And through the wind, the chill, the rain, the storm, and the flood, he will be there for her. That’s what defines a romance.

So to you authors out there I say, if you want your Hero—your Bad Boy, your Good Man, your Nerd-- to be a real man, make him dangerous. And give him a battle to fight. He’ll love you for it. Your heroine will love you for it.

Most of all, your readers will love you--and him--for it.