I’ve been working out at the Y several mornings a week. They use a great system called ActivTrax that helps novices like me who want to increase their strength. I suspect other people may have other goals, but I only know about mine.
I discovered during my initial meeting with a physical trainer, I had chosen wisely when I focused on strength. I don’t care to go into details about the pitiful showing my muscles made against the Cybex machines, but needless to say, it confirmed my worst fears about the effects of physical lethargy on my aging body. The trainer programmed the results of my embarrassing performance into the ActivTrax system, and the genius of the machine was set into motion. Each day the computer gives me a print out of what exercises to do, indicating the amount of weight and number of repetitions. After I complete a workout, I record the number of repetitions for each activity. ActivTrax then charts my progress and plans my next training session.
I have come to trust this program. I have learned to love the tingle of muscles being challenged to do more than they cared to do. I have secretly gloated over the rising line on my performance graph.
Last week I picked up a couple of weights and headed confidently to the bench I had already positioned for the prescribed routine. I straddled the bench and planned to swing into action. Yikes! I was shocked by the difficulty. I could barely lift the weight, and that was with my stronger arm. The full maneuver was impossible.
What idiot of a computer would have programmed such an impossible task—one I clearly wasn’t ready for!
Then I remembered… There were times when I had been running short on time and skipped some routines. Or times when the workout area I needed was full of real jocks and I had walked away from the humiliation. I never doubted my ability to do the routine at the time. I assumed I could do it satisfactorily if I had the time or the space.
Of course, I didn’t tell the computer, but I did have to put the number of repetitions for each exercise or it wouldn’t give me the next routine. I simply recorded the number I thought I could do—if I had actually completed the task. So the computer was only responding to the information I had given it, and it clearly was under the mistaken impression I could lift more weight than I actually can.
Is it lying if you don’t give a machine the truth? Is it lying if you honestly over-estimate your own strength? Who are you lying to if you breach a contract with your own intentions?
It has been three painful days since my misguided attempt at that particular routine. Yes, my arm is still a little tender. But so is my conscience. The experience makes me ponder how often in other areas of my life I over-estimate my own ability? How often do I fall short when I volunteer for a task for which I am not prepared? Have I hurt other people because I speak with an authority that is unsupported by knowledge and experience?
I am considering anew the perils of impatience and pride, particularly when they keep me from pursuing excellence. I am praying for a steadfast pursuit of the right and purposeful ‘next steps’ in every area of my life. I am asking for the wisdom and humility to make an honest evaluation of my own abilities.
A burning muscle in my arm is a small price to pay for the lesson I am learning.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
And Truth Wins Out
Jury duty! The summons appeared in the mail several weeks ago, this privilege to fulfill my role as a citizen and a member of the community. It was a gross inconvenience, but it was also a testament to my constitutional rights. I was called to serve my fellow man as a member of a jury of peers and charged with the responsibility to help determine, beyond a reasonable doubt, the truth of whatever current situation was being brought before the court.
I am an experienced juror. With every previous summons, I have won the unenviable position of serving as one of the twelve in the box. In retrospect, I think I bring it upon myself. I go into the courtroom hoping I won’t have to decide whether an injured woman deserves a substantial monetary reward or a young many should be punished by years in prison, but then the questioning begins.
I have been coached on how to answer the lawyer’s questions in such a way he will conclude I am an unstable fanatic whose presence will not serve the cause of justice. But these most dishonorable intentions evaporate in the bright light of my opportunity to shine. The first question flips my ‘people pleaser’ switch. Suddenly I want the questioner to like me. I want his opposing lawyer to approve of me as well. I want everyone in the courtroom to see me the way I see myself—a highly intelligent, reasonable person who embodies the wisdom of Solomon and the mercy of Mother Theresa in one incongruous but jury eligible package.
Ah, the perils of pride and pretention. As the victim of my insatiable need for affirmation, I have suffered through countless hours in deliberation rooms eating lukewarm meals in Styrofoam containers transported from the bailiff’s favorite diner. A fitting punishment for my arrogance.
Yesterday was my first exception. I wish I could proclaim I had conquered the old self, maintained a truthful, but humble, posture and been rejected from the jury for being too spiritual and grace oriented to make the decisive vote that would be needed. The opportunity to present myself in this way never presented itself. After a peaceful day of waiting that included hours of work related reading in the library and a pleasant lunch with a friend, I was dismissed for the week because my panel wasn’t needed.
I tried to explain to someone why I was relieved to be released (beyond the inconvenience of having a busy week hijacked by the legal system). I asserted it is difficult to make a decision that will have lasting consequences for the people who are in court. I emphasized the weight of determining a verdict beyond a reasonable doubt and how little I like to judge.
As soon as I said it, I knew it was a lie—this claim that I dislike to judge. An army of critical thoughts marching through my head at regular intervals prove I am more prone to assess than to accept. My attempts to deny them entry are embarrassingly weak. I am partial to my own opinions and as I sometimes say, “If there were a better way to do that, I would already be doing it.” By implication, when I affirm my own ways, I place myself in the role of being the supreme evaluator of others.
With this summons I never entered a courtroom, but the truth won out nevertheless. I was given a reprieve from sitting on a jury of my peers. I didn’t hear the facts of another’s case and have to wrestle with the consequences of my decision.
The case I heard yesterday was tried within my mind. The truth of my own sin nature was proven beyond a reasonable doubt.
I am an experienced juror. With every previous summons, I have won the unenviable position of serving as one of the twelve in the box. In retrospect, I think I bring it upon myself. I go into the courtroom hoping I won’t have to decide whether an injured woman deserves a substantial monetary reward or a young many should be punished by years in prison, but then the questioning begins.
I have been coached on how to answer the lawyer’s questions in such a way he will conclude I am an unstable fanatic whose presence will not serve the cause of justice. But these most dishonorable intentions evaporate in the bright light of my opportunity to shine. The first question flips my ‘people pleaser’ switch. Suddenly I want the questioner to like me. I want his opposing lawyer to approve of me as well. I want everyone in the courtroom to see me the way I see myself—a highly intelligent, reasonable person who embodies the wisdom of Solomon and the mercy of Mother Theresa in one incongruous but jury eligible package.
Ah, the perils of pride and pretention. As the victim of my insatiable need for affirmation, I have suffered through countless hours in deliberation rooms eating lukewarm meals in Styrofoam containers transported from the bailiff’s favorite diner. A fitting punishment for my arrogance.
Yesterday was my first exception. I wish I could proclaim I had conquered the old self, maintained a truthful, but humble, posture and been rejected from the jury for being too spiritual and grace oriented to make the decisive vote that would be needed. The opportunity to present myself in this way never presented itself. After a peaceful day of waiting that included hours of work related reading in the library and a pleasant lunch with a friend, I was dismissed for the week because my panel wasn’t needed.
I tried to explain to someone why I was relieved to be released (beyond the inconvenience of having a busy week hijacked by the legal system). I asserted it is difficult to make a decision that will have lasting consequences for the people who are in court. I emphasized the weight of determining a verdict beyond a reasonable doubt and how little I like to judge.
As soon as I said it, I knew it was a lie—this claim that I dislike to judge. An army of critical thoughts marching through my head at regular intervals prove I am more prone to assess than to accept. My attempts to deny them entry are embarrassingly weak. I am partial to my own opinions and as I sometimes say, “If there were a better way to do that, I would already be doing it.” By implication, when I affirm my own ways, I place myself in the role of being the supreme evaluator of others.
With this summons I never entered a courtroom, but the truth won out nevertheless. I was given a reprieve from sitting on a jury of my peers. I didn’t hear the facts of another’s case and have to wrestle with the consequences of my decision.
The case I heard yesterday was tried within my mind. The truth of my own sin nature was proven beyond a reasonable doubt.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Discipline, Part 2
I just spent some delightful and insightful moments reading the blogs of people I follow. I responded to some with a written comment. To others my response was in the form of a prayer. I loved reading about their days--whether those days were good or bad. It brought warm feelings of connection to see some parts of their lives in high noon light with no shadows behind which to hide.
The sporadic nature of my own posts stands in dismal contrast. The infrequent timing reflects my status--body and soul. To use a time-worn cliche, I've been 'under the weather'--although I think this statement might be quite accurate in my case since my infected sinuses are most likely the result of atmospheric conditions. My weakened body produces a soul-weariness that drinks my creative juices dry.
There-in lies the problem. I am too content to languish until I experience an 'aha' moment. Personal aside: I do love an 'aha' moment. During those grand and glorious encounters with an eternal truth that pushes through an ordinary experience, thoughts, words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs and ultimately, blogs bubble up from deep inside and then cascade triumphantly into readable form. But they don't happen every day...
To wait passively for inspiration denies the value of intention. Inspiration requires very little in the way of purpose or discipline. Interestingly, my previous blog post was on discipline.
I find it easier to write about discipline than to practice it.
I have nothing else inspiring to say. My ears hurt and my glands feel swollen. I'm positive it isn't swine flu. And, yes, I see the doctor tomorrow. Maybe renewed health will produce more insight or at least, some amusing anecdotes.
The sporadic nature of my own posts stands in dismal contrast. The infrequent timing reflects my status--body and soul. To use a time-worn cliche, I've been 'under the weather'--although I think this statement might be quite accurate in my case since my infected sinuses are most likely the result of atmospheric conditions. My weakened body produces a soul-weariness that drinks my creative juices dry.
There-in lies the problem. I am too content to languish until I experience an 'aha' moment. Personal aside: I do love an 'aha' moment. During those grand and glorious encounters with an eternal truth that pushes through an ordinary experience, thoughts, words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs and ultimately, blogs bubble up from deep inside and then cascade triumphantly into readable form. But they don't happen every day...
To wait passively for inspiration denies the value of intention. Inspiration requires very little in the way of purpose or discipline. Interestingly, my previous blog post was on discipline.
I find it easier to write about discipline than to practice it.
I have nothing else inspiring to say. My ears hurt and my glands feel swollen. I'm positive it isn't swine flu. And, yes, I see the doctor tomorrow. Maybe renewed health will produce more insight or at least, some amusing anecdotes.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Musings on Music and the Place of Discipline
The music escaped the center-stage Steinway as if it couldn't wait to be released from its ebony prison. The notes surged relentlessly toward the eager ears of an enraptured audience. Time tested compositions from Bach, Haydn and Chopin led the way to surprisingly energetic offerings from the more contemporary Ginastera and Piazzolla. Music of this magnitude restores and energizes the soul. That night it scooped me up and held me until my heart beat in time with its own melodious rhythm.
A solitary pianist used the keys at her fingertips to open the doorway into this experience. For a fleeting moment, I envisioned myself seated in her place, dressed in regal black and captivating the audience with my performance. After all, I too had once played the piano. Fourteen gruelling years and and thousands of dollars invested in the illusive hope of making me, if not a concert pianist, at least a church accompanist, and, according to my fun-loving mother, "the life of every party."
This ephemeral vision vanished in the too-bright reality of the spot-lit stage. Such musical ability requires discipline as well as talent, and I was lacking in both. Memorizing enough music to play for an hour and a half requires hours of practice. I certainly had practiced my obligatory hour a day. Every day. Right after school. Before my mother arrived home! I methodically ran scales and played pieces while I kept one eye on the television--and another on the driveway! (The latter was necessary so I could turn off the TV before my mother arrived. This system worked until she discovered my ruse when she placed her cool hand on the unnaturally warm TV.)
During my piano years, I never connected my lack of success with my own lackadaisical attitude. I suspected it was my succession of teachers, two of whom told me, "You are wasting my time and your parent's money." Of course, they refrained from repeating their comments to my mother out of deference to her feelings and their fees.
With the clarity of a soul freshly awakened by the penetrating music and an hour of reflection in a darkened recital hall, I saw the consequences of my own meandering path. I don't regret my cast-off musical opportunities for piano is neither my passion nor my talent. But, how many other areas of my life have suffered because I lack the discipline to persevere when it is boring, or I am tired, or I lack inspiration, or someone requires my assistance....
In how many ways am I content to do well when with sustained practice, I could excel? How has my walk with Christ been hobbled? In my pursuit of God, how often have I been distracted by a passing pleasure or an urgent item on another person's to-do list?
My pianist friend practices twelve hours a day. When I asked what she did for relaxation, she responded, "I play the piano." Her passion and devotion became a precious gift for her audience. What keys lie within my reach that I must exercise in order for my life to pulse with the rhythm of His grace?
A solitary pianist used the keys at her fingertips to open the doorway into this experience. For a fleeting moment, I envisioned myself seated in her place, dressed in regal black and captivating the audience with my performance. After all, I too had once played the piano. Fourteen gruelling years and and thousands of dollars invested in the illusive hope of making me, if not a concert pianist, at least a church accompanist, and, according to my fun-loving mother, "the life of every party."
This ephemeral vision vanished in the too-bright reality of the spot-lit stage. Such musical ability requires discipline as well as talent, and I was lacking in both. Memorizing enough music to play for an hour and a half requires hours of practice. I certainly had practiced my obligatory hour a day. Every day. Right after school. Before my mother arrived home! I methodically ran scales and played pieces while I kept one eye on the television--and another on the driveway! (The latter was necessary so I could turn off the TV before my mother arrived. This system worked until she discovered my ruse when she placed her cool hand on the unnaturally warm TV.)
During my piano years, I never connected my lack of success with my own lackadaisical attitude. I suspected it was my succession of teachers, two of whom told me, "You are wasting my time and your parent's money." Of course, they refrained from repeating their comments to my mother out of deference to her feelings and their fees.
With the clarity of a soul freshly awakened by the penetrating music and an hour of reflection in a darkened recital hall, I saw the consequences of my own meandering path. I don't regret my cast-off musical opportunities for piano is neither my passion nor my talent. But, how many other areas of my life have suffered because I lack the discipline to persevere when it is boring, or I am tired, or I lack inspiration, or someone requires my assistance....
In how many ways am I content to do well when with sustained practice, I could excel? How has my walk with Christ been hobbled? In my pursuit of God, how often have I been distracted by a passing pleasure or an urgent item on another person's to-do list?
My pianist friend practices twelve hours a day. When I asked what she did for relaxation, she responded, "I play the piano." Her passion and devotion became a precious gift for her audience. What keys lie within my reach that I must exercise in order for my life to pulse with the rhythm of His grace?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Two Stories of Stumps and Storms
I awakened to the unfamiliar sound of silence. The clock's rhythmic blinks offered a plausible explanation and its sincere apology, "Power was out. Don't blame me." I glanced out the window, but the predawn light successfully hid any damage inflicted by the storm that had raged during the night. Reporters for the early morning news offered a more telling assessment. Thousands of homes were without power. Traffic lights were out. Tree limbs littered water logged streets. High winds and a possible tornado had taken their toll.
As the sun rose, I surveyed our newly landscaped yard. Neither limb nor leaf marred the freshly laid sod. What a stark contrast to the after effects of previous storms. Mere months ago a night like this would have left our yard waist high with branches freshly ripped from our ancient trees. (Not that we considered this all bad since downed tree limbs allow for the most manly of all pursuits--the wielding of the mighty chainsaw. Ours holds a privileged place within reach of our bedroom in the unlikely event we will have to cut our way out of the house someday!)
The pristine condition of our lawn was no accident. Neither was it a mighty miracle at the hand of a merciful heavenly Father. No. This particular blessing was the benefit of a tough decision made months ago following Hurricane Gustav. Two of our three largest trees had blown over in the storm. The arborist warned the integrity of our remaining tree was seriously compromised. The next major storm could bring this majestic tree down on our house or a neighbor's. This pecan, a major factor in our decision to purchase our home, had provided shade for our parties, a backdrop for our pictures, pecans for our pies and a sense of peace for our yard. It was a wrenching, tear-filled decision--one we could only hope was right. Until this week.
As pictures of crushed cars and punctured roofs filled the evening news, and as we witnessed the new piles of storm debris on curbs, we clearly recognized the wisdom of our decision to remove the tree and grind its stump.
Lives can be a lot like trees.
Intense pain registered on her face for just a moment before the too bright smile of a practiced, 'I can cope' surfaced. From first-hand experience I recognized that well-rehearsed expression of resigned acceptance--a response so often used it almost convinces the one who hides behind it.
I was an adult when I began to recognize my sunny smile and optimistic disposition had a precarious foundation. I was a successful wife, mother, graduate student and teacher. My over-the-top busy life was characterized by a serene self-sufficiency that worked flawlessly--except for those moments when something (and I seldom figured out what)pushed a button deep inside me, and I erupted. Not that I exploded. No, indeed. To explode would be to admit a flaw. I imploded, shutting down in stony silence, taking long walks on dark streets or driving until I calmed down. (Yes, I did once get to Lafayette before returning to my curious family who was all too accustomed to my disappearing act.)
In time someone suggested my erratic behavior indicated a trail of hurt in my life. I couldn't very well disagree with their diagnosis, but I was convinced I could effectively hold a tighter reign on my emotions. My resolve crumbled when God gently sought my permission to deal with the root of my issues. I, who so longed to be like the tree planted by the streams of water (Psalm 1) was dropping dead branches every time a storm blew in. It was apparent the integrity of my steadfast spirit had been compromised. It was time to let God bring down my self sufficiency.
It was a hard decision and a continually painful process. Pruning the branches of recent development wasn't sufficient. Repeatedly God takes the axe of Truth to spiritual and familial strongholds. Even now He keeps a stump grinder handy as He continues to eradicate everything that is not Him.
Life's storms still come into my life, but the wind damage is less destructive. The hard decision to deal with roots of rejection and anger results in a life that increasingly yields its fruit in its season and it leaf does not wither; and in whatever [s]he does, [s]he prospers (Psalm 1:3)...
and no more does she drive abruptly and unthinkingly to another city.
As the sun rose, I surveyed our newly landscaped yard. Neither limb nor leaf marred the freshly laid sod. What a stark contrast to the after effects of previous storms. Mere months ago a night like this would have left our yard waist high with branches freshly ripped from our ancient trees. (Not that we considered this all bad since downed tree limbs allow for the most manly of all pursuits--the wielding of the mighty chainsaw. Ours holds a privileged place within reach of our bedroom in the unlikely event we will have to cut our way out of the house someday!)
The pristine condition of our lawn was no accident. Neither was it a mighty miracle at the hand of a merciful heavenly Father. No. This particular blessing was the benefit of a tough decision made months ago following Hurricane Gustav. Two of our three largest trees had blown over in the storm. The arborist warned the integrity of our remaining tree was seriously compromised. The next major storm could bring this majestic tree down on our house or a neighbor's. This pecan, a major factor in our decision to purchase our home, had provided shade for our parties, a backdrop for our pictures, pecans for our pies and a sense of peace for our yard. It was a wrenching, tear-filled decision--one we could only hope was right. Until this week.
As pictures of crushed cars and punctured roofs filled the evening news, and as we witnessed the new piles of storm debris on curbs, we clearly recognized the wisdom of our decision to remove the tree and grind its stump.
Lives can be a lot like trees.
Intense pain registered on her face for just a moment before the too bright smile of a practiced, 'I can cope' surfaced. From first-hand experience I recognized that well-rehearsed expression of resigned acceptance--a response so often used it almost convinces the one who hides behind it.
I was an adult when I began to recognize my sunny smile and optimistic disposition had a precarious foundation. I was a successful wife, mother, graduate student and teacher. My over-the-top busy life was characterized by a serene self-sufficiency that worked flawlessly--except for those moments when something (and I seldom figured out what)pushed a button deep inside me, and I erupted. Not that I exploded. No, indeed. To explode would be to admit a flaw. I imploded, shutting down in stony silence, taking long walks on dark streets or driving until I calmed down. (Yes, I did once get to Lafayette before returning to my curious family who was all too accustomed to my disappearing act.)
In time someone suggested my erratic behavior indicated a trail of hurt in my life. I couldn't very well disagree with their diagnosis, but I was convinced I could effectively hold a tighter reign on my emotions. My resolve crumbled when God gently sought my permission to deal with the root of my issues. I, who so longed to be like the tree planted by the streams of water (Psalm 1) was dropping dead branches every time a storm blew in. It was apparent the integrity of my steadfast spirit had been compromised. It was time to let God bring down my self sufficiency.
It was a hard decision and a continually painful process. Pruning the branches of recent development wasn't sufficient. Repeatedly God takes the axe of Truth to spiritual and familial strongholds. Even now He keeps a stump grinder handy as He continues to eradicate everything that is not Him.
Life's storms still come into my life, but the wind damage is less destructive. The hard decision to deal with roots of rejection and anger results in a life that increasingly yields its fruit in its season and it leaf does not wither; and in whatever [s]he does, [s]he prospers (Psalm 1:3)...
and no more does she drive abruptly and unthinkingly to another city.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Real Help From A Back Seat Driver
Yesterday my 'back seat' driver sat boldly in the passenger's seat--a position usually reserved for me. Not that I love riding passively. In fact, the argument over who gets to drive on long trips has caused more friction in our household than any other topic. But yesterday, I was the chosen! Seven glorious hours behind the wheel of a rented Nissan.
From years of riding when I would rather be driving, I have developed my own survival technique. Periodicals, puzzles, a novel, and for a case of serious boredom--a pillow. I studiously avoid watching my husband challenge the other 'idiots' on the road by keeping my eyes focused on my own pursuits.
With our positions reversed, my husband did not reciprocate my studied indifference. Mile after mile, his eyes glued to the road, he offered running commentary. "Watch your speed here. This area's always patrolled." "You will probably want to get into the left lane. The right is bumpy for miles." "You probably have time to pass that truck before you get to the exit..." And on it went from Baton Rouge to Natchitoches to Dallas.
An oft-used "I know that" almost escaped my pursed lips. But with an uncharacteristic outflow of humility, I realized I didn't know the information he offered. He, who travels this road so frequently he could navigate it successfully while finishing a crossword puzzle and simultaneously reading a novel was giving me the benefit of his hard won experience. I was grateful rather than annoyed.
Freed up from trying to figure out the quirks of an unfamiliar highway, I allowed my mind to travel the more recognizable terrain of my daily life. I thought of and prayed for the young women I see regularly--the ones who tell me their stories and want to hear mine. Suddenly I realized my role in their life journey is not unlike the role my husband is playing on this day-long trip. These gifted young women are solidly behind the wheel of their own lives. I couldn't take the wheel even if I wanted to. Yet, in a way that daily humbles me, these women invite me to journey with them for a while. They ask to learn from my experiences along this stretch of life's road. They are eager to know where the potholes are and which is the most expedient route. My comments won't make their journey shorter, but it might make it safer.
I see now I am not so much a mentor as I am a 'back seat driver' in another woman's life. Based on yesterday's experience, I'm okay with that.
From years of riding when I would rather be driving, I have developed my own survival technique. Periodicals, puzzles, a novel, and for a case of serious boredom--a pillow. I studiously avoid watching my husband challenge the other 'idiots' on the road by keeping my eyes focused on my own pursuits.
With our positions reversed, my husband did not reciprocate my studied indifference. Mile after mile, his eyes glued to the road, he offered running commentary. "Watch your speed here. This area's always patrolled." "You will probably want to get into the left lane. The right is bumpy for miles." "You probably have time to pass that truck before you get to the exit..." And on it went from Baton Rouge to Natchitoches to Dallas.
An oft-used "I know that" almost escaped my pursed lips. But with an uncharacteristic outflow of humility, I realized I didn't know the information he offered. He, who travels this road so frequently he could navigate it successfully while finishing a crossword puzzle and simultaneously reading a novel was giving me the benefit of his hard won experience. I was grateful rather than annoyed.
Freed up from trying to figure out the quirks of an unfamiliar highway, I allowed my mind to travel the more recognizable terrain of my daily life. I thought of and prayed for the young women I see regularly--the ones who tell me their stories and want to hear mine. Suddenly I realized my role in their life journey is not unlike the role my husband is playing on this day-long trip. These gifted young women are solidly behind the wheel of their own lives. I couldn't take the wheel even if I wanted to. Yet, in a way that daily humbles me, these women invite me to journey with them for a while. They ask to learn from my experiences along this stretch of life's road. They are eager to know where the potholes are and which is the most expedient route. My comments won't make their journey shorter, but it might make it safer.
I see now I am not so much a mentor as I am a 'back seat driver' in another woman's life. Based on yesterday's experience, I'm okay with that.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Whiplash
I woke up yesterday with a stiff neck and a mild headache. My husband was in an automobile accident, but I had whiplash!
No, I wasn't with him when a car cut across his path without looking. I was suffering from the jolt of an unexpected slice of life careening across my path. In the larger scale of life's journey, where recent illness had detoured and delayed our plans, we thought we were again traveling smoothly. Even in the short run of a day trip, I was on the road to success. Following an itinerary that had been mapped out since the night before, I was almost home (literally as well as figuratively).
The phone call alerting me to the accident transported me into high efficiency mode. Shut down computer. Drive husband to the doctor. Begin discussing immediately the logistics of a the days when we would be sharing a car. Express genuine thanksgiving there were no serious injuries. I felt great, all things considered. In retrospect I was in shock.
The day after the accident, I was shaken up. I felt bruised by life. In the aftermath, I was tense and exceptionally cautious. But even whiplash won't keep me off the road to Kingdom adventure. This most recent setback reminds me of one of my favorite Scripture passages, "Though the fig tree should not blossom and there be no fruit on the vines, though the yield of the olive should fail and the fields produce no food, though the flock should be cut off from the field and there be no cattle in the stalls, yet I will exalt in the Lord. I will rejoice in the god of my salvation." Habakkuk 3:17-18
The unexpected happens. Even the unpleasant. For a moment we respond to the impact. But no real damage has taken place. The One who cannot be shaken still stands.
No, I wasn't with him when a car cut across his path without looking. I was suffering from the jolt of an unexpected slice of life careening across my path. In the larger scale of life's journey, where recent illness had detoured and delayed our plans, we thought we were again traveling smoothly. Even in the short run of a day trip, I was on the road to success. Following an itinerary that had been mapped out since the night before, I was almost home (literally as well as figuratively).
The phone call alerting me to the accident transported me into high efficiency mode. Shut down computer. Drive husband to the doctor. Begin discussing immediately the logistics of a the days when we would be sharing a car. Express genuine thanksgiving there were no serious injuries. I felt great, all things considered. In retrospect I was in shock.
The day after the accident, I was shaken up. I felt bruised by life. In the aftermath, I was tense and exceptionally cautious. But even whiplash won't keep me off the road to Kingdom adventure. This most recent setback reminds me of one of my favorite Scripture passages, "Though the fig tree should not blossom and there be no fruit on the vines, though the yield of the olive should fail and the fields produce no food, though the flock should be cut off from the field and there be no cattle in the stalls, yet I will exalt in the Lord. I will rejoice in the god of my salvation." Habakkuk 3:17-18
The unexpected happens. Even the unpleasant. For a moment we respond to the impact. But no real damage has taken place. The One who cannot be shaken still stands.
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