A Friendly Reminder

I don't have anything profound to say today--just a simple reminder to be kind.

A week or so ago, I heard about an incident that had happened between a frustrated student and a staff member.  The student had become inpatient about a certain situation, and apparently, gave the woman with whom she'd been interacting quite a mouthful.

I began thinking about how this woman had become the brunt of a verbal lashing, when really, she was just trying to do her job.  I thought about how unfair it was to the staff member, who, from my understanding of the events, had been rather unfairly selected as the student chose her as a target to unleash her irritation.

I thought about how that student had no idea what this woman's life was like outside of their encounter, which probably lasted only several minutes long.  I thought about how, if I had been that staff member, I'd probably go home dwelling on the event, wondering what I could have done differently.  I often internalize the worst events of my day, often making them worse by replaying them over and over, trying to handle them better.  I sometimes can't let go of situations that hurt me, or situations in which I worry I caused others hurt. 

The same could be said for the student, though--who knows what she was dealing with?  I've heard it said before and I think it's worth repeating:  We're all dealing with something.  Every single person you know is either in the midst of a battle (visible or invisible), or they've just come out the other side of one.  In the rare instances where that's not the case, I imagine their numbers will be called shortly for upcoming life trials to be dispensed.  So, given that pretty much all of us are either currently dealing with, about to enter, or have just exited a difficult ordeal, doesn't it make sense that we all take a deep breath, and remember that it costs us nothing to be kind to one another?

In my life, I'm sure I've been both this student (taking out undue frustrations on whoever happens to be in front of me) and this staff member (absorbing them).  It's not fun to play either role, so I try not to let my anxieties or worries filter into daily life beyond the situations that have caused them.  I also try to remember that no one is perfect, so when I find someone being especially short with me, it's not always a personal attack.  The same rule applies in lots of situations, so I try to have a little extra grace when the cashiers aren't as friendly as I'd prefer, when the servers seem like they're struggling to keep up with a busy night, when the driver behind me passes me to cut me off, when the parent in the supermarket is fighting a losing battle with a tantrum-throwing toddler, etc., etc., etc.

Smiles aren't always expressions of happiness.  Sometimes they are the masks that hide incredible pain.  Be kind.

Clipped words, snapped responses, ignored text messages, curt glances, and even rude actions aren't always intended to be invitations to argue.  Sometimes they are side effects from dealing with grief, grappling with hardship, or being exhausted by the roller coasters of this tumultuous life.

Whenever you can, choose kindness.

Spiritual Musings

I see my writing very much related to my faith, because I see my faith related to every area of my life.  According to my Christian beliefs, God gave us all of our talents; he also instilled in us all of our passions.  So whatever talent I have as a writer is from Him.  The desire I have to write is also a direct effect stemming from how I've been wired by my Creator--at least, that's what I believe.

I try to use my gifts for the glory of God--if you didn't know, I blog for my church, and you can check that out here.  I also think that in much of my writing, you don't have to look very hard to find the theme of hope that is a hallmark of Christianity.

Having said this, though, I generally refrain from directly writing about spiritual matters--except as they pertain to events I include in my short stories or essays (and they do show up there--sometimes explicitly, sometimes more subtly).  The reason for my avoidance, in general, is I don't feel equipped.  I read devotions from Rick Warren, Beth Moore, Max Ludado, Joseph Prince, and others.  And I'm not sure that God has called me to speak with authority in the same way that they do through their writing.  I'm not a Biblical scholar.  I'm sure there are many occasions when I'd flounder in even the most basic of debates with skeptics and non-believers.

But though my area of study is not in theology, I do hold an advanced degree (a couple of them, actually).  Once upon a time, in my undergraduate days, I was trained to be a literary critic.  This was only reinforced as I continued my graduate work.  So why, I wonder, when I spent so many years in academia learning to interpret texts and defend my interpretations, do I hesitate to voice an opinion on a Biblical passage?

I think maybe it's because though I've achieved success in many worldly ways, I sometimes continue to let my failures define me.  I see myself as unqualified to insert myself in Christian conversations, because of all the times I've had a choice to make, and I chose wrong.  All the times God called me to do one thing, and I did something else.  All the times I've let doubt take over, and decided I wasn't the woman for the job.

Or maybe, I'm just really not called to write in the style of a Rick Warren or a Beth Moore.  I honestly don't know.

But as I was reading my devotion the other day, I came across this, and realized I had something to say about it.  I'd like to share it here, and I trust that you'll take what I'm saying for what it is--the humble opinion of one flawed Christian woman.

Here's the passage that got me thinking:


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This is from Beth Moore's Believing God Day by Day:  Growing your Faith all Year Long, a wonderful book that I think I bought for myself as a pick-me-up some years ago.  I didn't start at January in the daily devotions; I just jumped right in, whatever day it was.  I think I kept it at my desk when I taught in public education, and I think I read it every weekday, and probably left it there over summer break (oops).

So I decided this year, when planning out my God time, that I would begin every day with this little book--and I have, starting January 1, 2019.  Before I get out of bed or do anything else, I read the verse and Moore's commentary.  I re-read the pages that seem to speak to me especially, and I re-read all of the verses at least a couple times.  I also read a devotion more than once if I feel it's difficult for me to relate the verse to her commentary, or if I'm struggling to follow what she's saying, or relate it to my life.

The above passage really spoke to me, for a number of reasons.  First of all, it's so counter-cultural.  For a skeptic, putting God above family is probably a really different thing to understand.  Honestly, it's a really difficult principle for me to follow, and I wonder if most Christians were being truthful, if they would confess the same--or if maybe, they are a lot more spiritual than I am.  It's just the tangible love that we feel when we hold our spouse's hand or kiss our babies is so strong and undeniable.  And the expectation is, we must put a far less tangible relationship, one that requires faith to enter, and faith to maintain, above all the others in our lives.

It is difficult for me to live this out.

Yet, while I sometimes place people above God, I do believe the truth in Moore's words here:  "My relationship with God preceded my present family and proceeded long after my mother died.  In other words, my longest and most effectual history with anyone has been with God Himself."

As I read the rest of that devotional, which invited me to think back about the memories I'd made with God, I was amazed that they did come easily:

 My early introduction to Him, when I used to attend a tiny Baptist church just a little more often than Christmas and Easter.  I felt this inexplicable sense of joy when the people in that church, most of them strangers to me, sang "Welcome/To the Family/Of the people who love the Lord."  There was something in their voices that was so honest, so warm.  It didn't matter that some of the voices were warbling and others were off-key.  There was something beautiful there.

The weeks I sat in church service in college--at the altar call, every Sunday, I felt this tugging, this pulling--this pleading, just about--every time the pastor invited any who had not received Him to come and do so now.  I can remember with vivid clarity the absolute sense of relief, the happiness in my surety, when I finally walked down the aisle to the cross one Sunday.

My baptism, not long after that.  I was nineteen.  Ironically, as I read the devotional that inspired this post, I looked up and saw the photo that I still have from that day--I'm holding my nose with my hands, I'm soaking wet, the pastor is grinning next to me--and every time I look at that picture, I remember exactly how free I felt.  That sense of joy, that I think is unique to believers.  Lest you think I stare at this picture daily--it was behind my daughter's scrapbook, which I'd happened to move, and when I looked at it after reading that devotional, that was the first time I'd seen that photo in probably a year.  Like it was God literally showing me--We've got plenty of memories.  Here's one.  See?

I remember when I was bleeding out on the operating table, just minutes after meeting my firstborn daughter.  When I realized that I was hemorrhaging--that was probably one of the most pivotal moments of my life.  You have no idea how helpless you are until you realize that you have zero control over whether or not you will live to see your next moment.  I remember praying--laying there on that table, body trembling, blood gushing.  It was odd the sense of peace I had, given the circumstances.  But there was this moment between me and God.  I started by apologizing--telling Him I was sorry for every sin I'd ever committed, all the ways I'd failed him, both big and small.  I hadn't been walking the Christian life back then--I had a lot to apologize for.  And I still had this absolute sense that He heard me.  That He forgave me.  I told Him that if it was my time, I was thankful for the years I had been given, and that I trusted Him.  But I asked him, could He please spare me?

So I could hold my daughter?

So Rashieme wouldn't have to do this alone?

And he did.  I lost three pints of blood and required a blood transfusion.  But I lived.

And what's more than that, I'm alive in Him.

My faith is the reason I believe I'll see my stillborn daughter again.  It's why I think I'll get to hug my dad in heaven.

Most importantly, I'll get to be with Jesus.

Have you ever thought about it--if He was who He said he was, and He did what He said He did--what greater love is there?  What greater love could there be?

I'm forever thankful.  For the reasons I've described here, and so many others.

 So, yes.  I am one of those of little faith.  I need to be constantly reminded that I do serve a great God, that He does care about me.  That He is real.  That He will never leave me or forsake me.  I constantly struggle to keep him first, in spite of all the ways He's showed up for me.

I know He knows I'm trying.

My family is an incredible gift.  I hope yours is, too.

But I do believe all gifts come from God, and the greatest of these is Jesus Christ.