Paul's thorn

I'm wondering if Paul's thorn might have been a person. Just a thought to ponder, today, if someone is drawing us crazy!!!

Or vice versa....oh, there's always that, too!

"Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. ⁸ Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. ⁹ But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. ¹⁰ That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong" (2 Corinthians 12:7-10 NIV).

Finish the work!

Her earnest words jolted me out of a lethargic state, but she didn’t know it, for she was talking about own writing, not about mine:  “I don’t want it to be another thing I start and don’t finish.”

A former student, now a friend and fellow writer, nudged me out of a labyrinth I was wandering around in, not really looking for the end, just taking my time and enjoying the scenery as I sauntered to and fro a maze of procrastination. Stalling really. I prefer to write, not edit. To revise, not punctuate. To create, not airbrush the type. I love to write; the editing process is tedious. And my eyes are older now. Trifocal lenses and all. One nearsighted contact, one farsighted contact, and pink, dollar store reading glasses as well.   

I have a book to finish editing, and I was being lazy about editing it because I had other ideas for more books! The English teacher's curse is to correct and criticize (constructively, of course) and edit until sometimes the desire to finish is stalled. Clarity at all cost! Cut ruthlessly! Strunk and White lives! Editing with no end in sight isn’t motivational; creating anew is more enjoyable.

“I don’t want it to be another thing I start and don’t finish.” Her words were the Minotaur I needed to chase me back to the project at hand.

Ouch!  But thanks, Lacy Elick. Back to editing I go.

And please, anyone reading this blog, pray for me as I finish editing my book!  An English teacher is never satisfied. But “I don’t want it to be another thing I start and don’t finish.”

Jesus finished the work God gave him to do. Finishing is a good goal to keep in mind. And not just for a book. 

Addicted

Seven weeks ago today, I stopped drinking coffee. For awhile anyway. At least until I don't feel so addicted to it. I tried drinking coffee without any added ingredients, but that didn't work. I tried drinking coffee with whole milk because that’s what my brother does, but that didn’t work either. And I tried simply cutting back. But none of those things worked. They didn’t work because I like the creamer more than the coffee -- not the healthy creamer or the half and half or the fat-free, sugar-free, but the plain old, nasty, white powdered creamer. The white powder that is the unhealthiest of all. The kind with all the sugar and added ingredients that make you crave it even more. And the cheaper the creamer, the better the coffee tasted to me. 

It wasn’t the coffee so much that I loved, even though the strong aroma of Starbucks House blend beans grinding was enough to wake me with enthusiasm each morning, but the taste once the unhealthy creamer was stirred in, heaping teaspoon by heaping teaspoon, really heaping Tablespoon by heaping Tablespoon.  Until the coffee was more white, than coffee.  I used to say jokingly that I liked a little coffee with my creamer.  But it wasn’t a joke. And I didn’t use just any ole’ cup either, but a bowl-size coffee mug, which I drank from, not only in the morning, but all day long. It was comforting. And I was addicted.

I’d hear people talk about someone who couldn’t stop drinking alcohol or smoking cigarettes, and they’d muse aloud why in the world that person didn’t just stop. Well, I could tell them why. Addiction. I knew. I was addicted to my coffee. And addiction is serious. It's not easy. My biological father -- from what I’ve been told -- lived an alcoholic life.  

Anyway, Ian and I are on a health kick because our oldest son told his daddy that if he didn’t lose weight the safari people would charge him double for a seat in one of the smaller aircrafts while we are in Africa. That’s all it took for Ian – a former banker of 30 years – to be more serious about his weight. And one thing led to another and that desire has become, thankfully for both of us, the desire to become healthier. Which we needed to do. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for that miracle as we hadn’t been able to do it on our own. We needed a little help from those who loved us.

After several weeks of the unpleasant symptoms of withdrawal, complete with headaches and exhaustion, I haven’t missed coffee as much as I thought I would, and by substituting green tea the need for a hot drink in a cold school has sufficed. But for weeks – despite my healthier eating habits and multivitamins and gym workouts -- I’ve felt exhausted. Mentally, not physically. When a friend asked me the other day why I hadn’t been writing in my blog for almost a month, I sat down and thought about it. And I realized what had happened. I always wrote in the mornings – 4:30 or 5:00 AM, the earlier the better for me – but for decades, I always had my coffee when I wrote. Always. The two – my writing and my coffee -- were connected beyond what I had realized. Epiphany!

Part of exhaustion is when you stop doing what you love and only do what you have to do.

And that’s what I had done. For I love to write, musing on paper and pondering my thoughts and reflecting on life, for I never know where my writing might take me. So many times it’s a discovery that I only have when I write. Rambling realizations for sure at times, sometimes an epiphany or a Eureka! moment, or sometimes just because it feels good. But I love writing without stress, not editing for someone or correcting a paper or even teaching it, which I also love to do, but simply writing for the sheer delight of it.   

Part of exhaustion is when you stop doing what you love and only do what you have to do.

No more.

So glad a friend asked me -- point blank -- what was going on.

And here we are seven weeks later, healthier and caffeine-free. Yet now, according to our son, we won’t be on those little planes after all!

Lol!

He is risen!

He had experienced his own share of heartache. A dignified man, he once had a wife who cheated on him, threatening to destroy the part of all of us who lose faith in love. But he won that battle, and he remarried, this time to a woman who was crazy about him. They adopted two children who were truly the best part of his life. And we knew it.

I always remember my dad on Easter Sunday. For the first 13 years of my life, he was the proud father who gave his beloved daughters pink, sweetheart rose corsages to wear to church. For the past 44 years, he’s been the memory of a proud father who gave his beloved daughters pink, sweetheart rose corsages to wear to church. Not once have I gotten ready for church on an Easter Sunday that I didn’t think of my dad with appreciation, gratitude, respect, and love for the legacy he left behind in his girls. And I’m sure my sister has done the same. 

My sister is now moving to Bellville to a fabulous home where she can keep her horses in her backyard. The other day she told me that Daddy always told her he’d find her a place where she could have horses for my sister has loved them all her life. In fact, she galloped instead of walked and neighed instead of yelled many times and she even ate grass once because that’s what horses did.

So when she made the comment about horses, I wasn’t surprised. Daddy knew how much she loved them and he always tried to do his best for his girls. Then Janie said, “How happy Daddy must be that both his Finch girls are back home.”

With Easter, come so many opportunities to be grateful – especially and most importantly because Christ died and rose so we might live – but with that, comes the reminder of all the fabulous people who were once in our lives that are living right now because Christ rose from the grave. Men and women and children who are not lost from us, just absent from us for a little while.

So, Happy Easter, Daddy! Remembering you, with great love, on this Easter Sunday. Janie and I love you so much.

And thank you, Christ Jesus, for loving us and accomplishing what we could not.

He is risen!

His Presence

Our fourteen-year-old beagle, Riley, wants inside the house with us when we’re home. He barks and he whines and he howls and then he barks some more, demanding our attention, for Riley knows what he wants -- to be inside -- because that’s where we are.  Ian says it’s because that’s where the food is. Regardless, whether it’s the food or us, Riley knows what he wants, and he wants inside.

He usually needs some assistance to get in and out of our house. The two back steps are killers for his back legs as he struggles with osteoporosis, a debilitating disease which has definitely set him back in his twilight years; but Riley refuses to back down from what he wants – to be inside with us.

Sometimes I have to pick him up; sometimes he’s able to do it on his own. His head tells him to go, but his legs say no. But Riley knows what he wants. Even his back legs don’t stop him from making that known.

A good lesson, a reminder really, for me – for anyone – to know what we want and to let that be known. Even when we’re tired and exhausted and hurt. Even when we’re irritated or apathetic or distressed. To stay focused on what we want.

After the resurrection, the believers in Jesus knew what they wanted. They were preoccupied, consumed really, with their risen Lord. He was the center of conversation, the center of interest, the center of their lives. He was all they talked about. He was all they wanted. His presence was more important to them than anything else.

Riley’s persistent barking, demanding to be inside, reminded me today of that mighty fact:  being in Christ’s presence is more important than anything else.

After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.

The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’ Now I have told you.”

So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them. “Greetings,” he said. They came to him, clasped his feet and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, “Do not be afraid. Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”  

Matthew 28:1-10