To say I limped would have been an understatement. I hobbled. I would have preferred to saunter, even traipse or schlep - anything that didn't involve pain.
In fact, I reminded myself of Grandpappy Amos from the Real McCoys, who's image lingered in the cobwebs of my childhood memories. He would flap his elbows out like a chicken to get some kind of lift in order to take the pressure off his bad leg. I started doing that.
Several people commented..."hey gal, ya got a hitch in yer giddey-up" one guy exclaimed. "You been wrestling with God lately?" another questioned. I smiled. "No, I just didn't stretch before running, hoping to save a little time...ironic, huh?" They nodded knowingly.
And now I needed more than time, I needed to haul buns. I was in charge of our church women's event taking place in too days, and I couldn't muster the gumption to get off my chair. So much for "Hinds Feet on High Places", I'll settle for "Able to Amble with Advil" I muttered.
Each day I tried a new remedy. First Icy Hot, then a variety of pain killers (not all at once), and finally deep message (ouch). Then I'd give myself the pep talk - come on Colleen, push through the pain...you can do the thing... By the fifth day, I was ready to call My eighty-something Mom and ask to borrow her scooter.
Instead, I had a melt-down with God. At work no less.
I must have looked sad and pathetic with one leg dangling off the little love seat in my office as I cried out to God. I have so much to do, and I can't do anything. I am feeble, and helpless. I keep dropping things, and it hurts to bend down to pick them up! I can't do this event!" I sobbed - like admitting it was a surprise, and like He needed me to pull-off the event. Yet in that act of utter dependence, I felt something I had not experienced in days. I felt a profound sense of peace.
Having not slept well for five nights, I took a nap. When I awoke, something felt different. Rather than the stabbing pain in my hip, a warmness radiated in the wounded muscle, and I knew God was beginning to heal it.
By Friday, I couldn't strut, but I could definitely amble through the women's event. It came off without a hitch. My slight limp reminded me that God delights in displaying His power toward His children when they desperately cry out to Him for help. And like the Apostle Paul, I realized that when I am weak, God can pour out His grace and do far more than I could accomplish with two good hips.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
Toothless Grin
As a child, I had it all backwards when it came to God. I felt forgotten. And I could not forget my sins.
Fifth grade seemed like a Right-of-Passage kind of year from little kid to big kid. Big kids have their big teeth. The whole tooth fairy thing was supposed to be completed well before the the day when you walk into fifth grade proudly displaying the pearly whites. My two front teeth, however, decided to wait to make an appearance until later that year. My gummy grin said it all. I was shamefully immature, and thus christened "toothless".
It wouldn't have been so bad to be called by another name by mistake, or to have even been ignored. But to be dubbed by my weakest attribute? Had I not already felt like God was punishing me by moving our family to Ceres, California; I might have shrugged it off easier.
Even the bus driver knew all the other kid's names. Back home, my friends at school called me by name. We'd skip home together, unaware of the need to be self-conscious. Our whole church congregation knew I was the Pastor's kid, and they all knew my name. And no one ever cared if my teeth were in or out.
The only solution was to move back home where I belonged. So I begged God to do it. I prayed it every night. I Imagined it everyday during the hour-ling bus ride through the outskirts of Ceres. But it never happened.
A Sunday school teacher once told me that God didn't answer prayers because of some sin in our lives. I figured I must have a lot of sin.
Decades passed. I'd forgotten the sorrow-filled pleadings of that fifth grader. Yet the sense of inadequacy remained. Unanswered prayers often triggered thoughts like: I wonder what I did wrong now...
One night I asked God to reveal the root of my insecurity. After prayerfully holding the issue before Him, a memory arose in my mind like it happened yesterday.
I could see myself riding home from school, alone on the bus seat. Sad. Forgotten.
The driver pulled up to to my stop. I felt the familiar dread like lead in my stomach. No one ever met me. Everyone had their own lives. I would walk down the road alone, as always.
I looked out the window. This time I saw something different.
There he was, waiting for me. My Dad stood scanning the bus with a look of anticipation in His eyes. I grabbed my stuff, hoping he wasn't a mirage.
It wasn't that Dad meant to ignore me, his mind had been preoccupied with serious things, like relocating his family and starting a new church. He was unaware that I missed the way he used to call me "Darlin." Yet I couldn't help but wonder if I'd done something wrong.
I looked again, just to make sure. A sun ray mirrored the window. Not only could I see my Dad's adoring smile, I could see my own reflection layered on the glass. A ten year old with a toothless grin, so happy to see her Daddy that she forgot to hold her hand in front of her mouth.
I flew down the steps and jumped into His arms.
Between hiccuped sobs, I unloaded my sorrow in the safety of his embrace. His long-awaited answer filled a vacancy in my heart. He simply said "I love you, Darlin."
God remembered the desperate prayers of a ten year old after all. I felt like I belonged again...
"...even these may forget, but I will not forget you." Isaiah 49:15
Fifth grade seemed like a Right-of-Passage kind of year from little kid to big kid. Big kids have their big teeth. The whole tooth fairy thing was supposed to be completed well before the the day when you walk into fifth grade proudly displaying the pearly whites. My two front teeth, however, decided to wait to make an appearance until later that year. My gummy grin said it all. I was shamefully immature, and thus christened "toothless".
It wouldn't have been so bad to be called by another name by mistake, or to have even been ignored. But to be dubbed by my weakest attribute? Had I not already felt like God was punishing me by moving our family to Ceres, California; I might have shrugged it off easier.
Even the bus driver knew all the other kid's names. Back home, my friends at school called me by name. We'd skip home together, unaware of the need to be self-conscious. Our whole church congregation knew I was the Pastor's kid, and they all knew my name. And no one ever cared if my teeth were in or out.
The only solution was to move back home where I belonged. So I begged God to do it. I prayed it every night. I Imagined it everyday during the hour-ling bus ride through the outskirts of Ceres. But it never happened.
A Sunday school teacher once told me that God didn't answer prayers because of some sin in our lives. I figured I must have a lot of sin.
Decades passed. I'd forgotten the sorrow-filled pleadings of that fifth grader. Yet the sense of inadequacy remained. Unanswered prayers often triggered thoughts like: I wonder what I did wrong now...
One night I asked God to reveal the root of my insecurity. After prayerfully holding the issue before Him, a memory arose in my mind like it happened yesterday.
I could see myself riding home from school, alone on the bus seat. Sad. Forgotten.
The driver pulled up to to my stop. I felt the familiar dread like lead in my stomach. No one ever met me. Everyone had their own lives. I would walk down the road alone, as always.
I looked out the window. This time I saw something different.
There he was, waiting for me. My Dad stood scanning the bus with a look of anticipation in His eyes. I grabbed my stuff, hoping he wasn't a mirage.
It wasn't that Dad meant to ignore me, his mind had been preoccupied with serious things, like relocating his family and starting a new church. He was unaware that I missed the way he used to call me "Darlin." Yet I couldn't help but wonder if I'd done something wrong.
I looked again, just to make sure. A sun ray mirrored the window. Not only could I see my Dad's adoring smile, I could see my own reflection layered on the glass. A ten year old with a toothless grin, so happy to see her Daddy that she forgot to hold her hand in front of her mouth.
I flew down the steps and jumped into His arms.
Between hiccuped sobs, I unloaded my sorrow in the safety of his embrace. His long-awaited answer filled a vacancy in my heart. He simply said "I love you, Darlin."
God remembered the desperate prayers of a ten year old after all. I felt like I belonged again...
"...even these may forget, but I will not forget you." Isaiah 49:15
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Gone to the dogs...
While gardening, I heard my neighbor call to her dog. 'Here Trixie, come to momma! Momma loves you! Where's my little snoogums?'
No response.
Then; 'Trixie! I said come!!!'
Nothing.
Then; Trixie, you *!#*^&! Dog! If I ever get my hands on you, I'm gonna...'
And I thought; now there is a bi-polar dog in the making.
My own dog, Sadie, not wanting to disrupt her repose, raised an eyebrow.
Later, I decided to take Sadie for a stroll. Clearly awakened from her stupor, she dragged me around the neighborhood. It's all or nothing with you, girl. huh? I puffed.
While reading the sign clearly stating that all dogs must be on a leash, leashless 'Lester' bound past us at breakneck speed, while his owner begged, pleaded and cajoled him to stop. The dog turned his head as if to acknowledge Sadie without a pause in his pace. The expression on his part Golden Lab, part Wolf face said 'I am in charge, and he is not'. And I thought; now that owner needs to be in a co-dependent recovery group.
Up ahead, a pudgy Pug sporting a sweater seemed to be dancing some kind of jig. He'd take a couple of steps, stop and snort, take a couple more and do the same. Obsessive/compulsive. I noted.
I looked down at Sadie, squatting for her evening duty. While waiting, I thought about possible titles for a new book: Boundaries for Dogs, or: Dogs are from Mars and People are from Venus, or: Dogs, and the People who Love to Hate Them, or my personal favorite: Poopers and Their Scoopers, a Fresh Step.
And then THEY walked by. An Airedale, striding effortlessly beside her master, not pulling on the leash. She plumed past the rest of us like the queen of the community. Her owner said nothing but a proper 'Hello' as the two glided ahead in quiet unison; the epitome of dog/master synchronization.
No dog is born that way. It must have taken years of obedience school, hours of practice, and tons of cash...I rationalized.
I gazed down at the pile in front of me. Of course I'd forgotten the bag. We had to go back home and start over. So frustrated by my forgetfulness, it took a couple of blocks to realize Sadie was walking right beside me.
A breathless woman chasing her errant Cockapoo stopped mid-stride, and gaped at us. 'That is such a well-behaved dog! What is your secret?' she asked.
'No secret, just timing. You caught us between extremes.' I answered.
No response.
Then; 'Trixie! I said come!!!'
Nothing.
Then; Trixie, you *!#*^&! Dog! If I ever get my hands on you, I'm gonna...'
And I thought; now there is a bi-polar dog in the making.
My own dog, Sadie, not wanting to disrupt her repose, raised an eyebrow.
Later, I decided to take Sadie for a stroll. Clearly awakened from her stupor, she dragged me around the neighborhood. It's all or nothing with you, girl. huh? I puffed.
While reading the sign clearly stating that all dogs must be on a leash, leashless 'Lester' bound past us at breakneck speed, while his owner begged, pleaded and cajoled him to stop. The dog turned his head as if to acknowledge Sadie without a pause in his pace. The expression on his part Golden Lab, part Wolf face said 'I am in charge, and he is not'. And I thought; now that owner needs to be in a co-dependent recovery group.
Up ahead, a pudgy Pug sporting a sweater seemed to be dancing some kind of jig. He'd take a couple of steps, stop and snort, take a couple more and do the same. Obsessive/compulsive. I noted.
I looked down at Sadie, squatting for her evening duty. While waiting, I thought about possible titles for a new book: Boundaries for Dogs, or: Dogs are from Mars and People are from Venus, or: Dogs, and the People who Love to Hate Them, or my personal favorite: Poopers and Their Scoopers, a Fresh Step.
And then THEY walked by. An Airedale, striding effortlessly beside her master, not pulling on the leash. She plumed past the rest of us like the queen of the community. Her owner said nothing but a proper 'Hello' as the two glided ahead in quiet unison; the epitome of dog/master synchronization.
No dog is born that way. It must have taken years of obedience school, hours of practice, and tons of cash...I rationalized.
I gazed down at the pile in front of me. Of course I'd forgotten the bag. We had to go back home and start over. So frustrated by my forgetfulness, it took a couple of blocks to realize Sadie was walking right beside me.
A breathless woman chasing her errant Cockapoo stopped mid-stride, and gaped at us. 'That is such a well-behaved dog! What is your secret?' she asked.
'No secret, just timing. You caught us between extremes.' I answered.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Next trip
So I'm thinking that if God speaks to me through art, I need to go to Paris. Just imagine; entering the Louvre an idiot, and emerging a savant...
Friday, August 21, 2009
Looking for me in all the wrong places...
In the middle of the San Francisco Marathon expo, my husband and I, along with thousands of anxious runners perused the sample stations looking for energy bars and liquid fuel that would enable us to go farther and faster than ever before. For most of them, finishing tomorrow's race crowded their minds. Getting through the masses drove me.
Like the other runners, my husband acquired his "bib" (the numbers that identify who you are), and "chip", the bar code that electronically verifies starting and finishing the marathon. He bought sugary syrup called "Goo" and "Gel" to ingest while running. He and the others were on a mission to be prepared. They looked the part. They had a common goal. They had mutual Identity. I felt envious.
At the end of the corridor, a life sized poster of a woman about my age, obviously in shape, wearing a cute little running outfit and dangling a pair of Nike's taunted me. The slogan: "You too can be a running Diva".
I went down that mental path for a few moments: Sure, I could do that. I could spend every spare minute running in order to run some more -pay for parking and a hotel to run with thousands of people - risk hypothermia, dehydration, being trampled, all for a little medal. No thanks. I can find other identities...
Driving from the expo to our hotel, I thought about the vast number of groups in San Francisco that I could be identified with. Since my husband is Italian, I could take up residence in little Italy, although I would only be one of them vicariously, so it doesn't really count as my own identity.
We passed China Town. Don't qualify. Height/Ashbury - dressed like that in the '70's, and don't want to go back. Nob Hill - not rich enough. The Financial District - too preppy. The Presidio - bad eyesight, and can't spell. I think spelling matters there.
And then, as we crossed over the Bay Bridge, I spotted it rising like a beacon on a hill - Ikea. My spirits rose; I think I am Part Swedish! It is meant for me to buy Scandinavian furniture!
Yet after eating the meatballs and losing my husband in the crowded showroom, it occurred to me that this was just like the marathon - especially the trampled part, only with a different outcome. Instead of a medal, you get a rug or a loft bed. Either way, it is only temporary, and not worth the effort.
On the way to the car, I stopped for a moment and looked up. The seagulls above soared in quiet simplicity. God, I have no identity. I don't have a tattoo or even an active piercing. I am not INTO anything but You. I do not feel in the least bit unique. I feel like I should have more, but maybe THAT is the problem.
Later that night in our room, while my husband slept, I pondered a photograph on the wall. The image seemed to be strategically placed there just for that moment in time. An areal shot of a monument in the middle of hundreds of San Francisco buildings towered beyond the congested city. Unrestrained. Unique. Powerful. Like a lighthouse in the sea of humanity. Like God.
I heard an almost audible message from Him as I drifted off to sleep. The kind of message that settles down deep inside. You belong with ME.
The next day, as the runners sported their accomplishments throughout the streets of San Francisco, I didn't schlep like the day before, I confidently sauntered as though I'd won the over 40 division.
It is OK that God is my identity. He is big enough for the both of us.
Like the other runners, my husband acquired his "bib" (the numbers that identify who you are), and "chip", the bar code that electronically verifies starting and finishing the marathon. He bought sugary syrup called "Goo" and "Gel" to ingest while running. He and the others were on a mission to be prepared. They looked the part. They had a common goal. They had mutual Identity. I felt envious.
At the end of the corridor, a life sized poster of a woman about my age, obviously in shape, wearing a cute little running outfit and dangling a pair of Nike's taunted me. The slogan: "You too can be a running Diva".
I went down that mental path for a few moments: Sure, I could do that. I could spend every spare minute running in order to run some more -pay for parking and a hotel to run with thousands of people - risk hypothermia, dehydration, being trampled, all for a little medal. No thanks. I can find other identities...
Driving from the expo to our hotel, I thought about the vast number of groups in San Francisco that I could be identified with. Since my husband is Italian, I could take up residence in little Italy, although I would only be one of them vicariously, so it doesn't really count as my own identity.
We passed China Town. Don't qualify. Height/Ashbury - dressed like that in the '70's, and don't want to go back. Nob Hill - not rich enough. The Financial District - too preppy. The Presidio - bad eyesight, and can't spell. I think spelling matters there.
And then, as we crossed over the Bay Bridge, I spotted it rising like a beacon on a hill - Ikea. My spirits rose; I think I am Part Swedish! It is meant for me to buy Scandinavian furniture!
Yet after eating the meatballs and losing my husband in the crowded showroom, it occurred to me that this was just like the marathon - especially the trampled part, only with a different outcome. Instead of a medal, you get a rug or a loft bed. Either way, it is only temporary, and not worth the effort.
On the way to the car, I stopped for a moment and looked up. The seagulls above soared in quiet simplicity. God, I have no identity. I don't have a tattoo or even an active piercing. I am not INTO anything but You. I do not feel in the least bit unique. I feel like I should have more, but maybe THAT is the problem.
Later that night in our room, while my husband slept, I pondered a photograph on the wall. The image seemed to be strategically placed there just for that moment in time. An areal shot of a monument in the middle of hundreds of San Francisco buildings towered beyond the congested city. Unrestrained. Unique. Powerful. Like a lighthouse in the sea of humanity. Like God.
I heard an almost audible message from Him as I drifted off to sleep. The kind of message that settles down deep inside. You belong with ME.
The next day, as the runners sported their accomplishments throughout the streets of San Francisco, I didn't schlep like the day before, I confidently sauntered as though I'd won the over 40 division.
It is OK that God is my identity. He is big enough for the both of us.
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