"And when the people complained, it displeased the Lord: and the Lord heard it... " ... Numbers 11:1
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Never fails. Every summer the Holy Spirit goes into overtime convicting me about my complaining.
Why every summer? Because it begins with my oft complaints about the heat. "Man, it's so hot. I think I'm gonna die. All these fans in here are so loud that we have to shout at each other. This computer is making me even sweatier. So I get out to mow the yard early in the morning, but it's still so blooming hot and wipes me out the whole rest of the day."
But you know where all that leads don't you? Those it's-too-hot complaints come flowing over my tongue so free and easy and then that new complaining habit spreads like a prairie fire.
"I barely slept last night. The garage is a big, fat mess so I'm not going out there until you clean it up, Tom. People are so grouchy lately. It's time to feed the birds again? Man, they're like teensy pigs with wings. My head hurts. I'm sick of reading books--that's all I've been doing because it's too hot to do anything else."
And on and on to infinity.
You'd think I'd learn, but every summer I have to relearn this lesson: Become free and easy with complaining about summer heat and eventually you'll wake up deep inside Sad, Sorry Complaining World.
And that's one dark planet where it's not a cinch to escape.
No, it takes lots of help from God, tons of reminders (dare I say nagging?) from the Holy Spirit to yank you back out to the fresh air of gratitude and acceptance and making the most out of what you have.
I know this. I've been through this. And I'm in the middle of that Holy Spirit Yanking Process once again. Thank-goodness.
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Form a complaining habit and it will carry you to places you do not wish to go.
On these soft, humid mornings when 6:30 comes around, I switch on the old-fashioned kitchen radio and listen to The Writer's Almanac.
Oh, that buttery, soothing voice of Garrison Keillor! I pour kibble into the cats' dishes and ready Lennon's syringe and Garrison tells me about the writers born on this day and that voice, that voice! transports me back to years I never knew, years before I was born and to country places and homes I never visited before where women wore aprons and hummed about the kitchen while pouring tiny glasses of orange juice.
Every weekday morning this is my treat.
And then Garrison reads a poem and oh, those poems carry me even further away until I am not even me, but someone else swooping into windows of houses no longer standing, a fly on the wall watching people no longer there, but in Heaven.
Then at the end of just those five moments Garrison stops speaking, his program's music ends and I'm back in my kitchen, awaking with a can of cat food in my hand at the refrigerator door. And smiling all dreamy-eyed.
Here was the poem Garrison's read just moments ago, but without that voice of his, ah! The voice of someone doing exactly what he was called to do in this world, well, it's a nice poem, yes, but you'll have to do the best you can to find the extra magic.
Letter to My Mother
by Robert PhillipsSpinach Days)
You helped me pack for that milestone event,
first time away from home alone.
It didn't matter the summer camp was poor—long on Jesus, short on funds—
bordering a tea-colored lake.
No matter we could afford only two weeks.
To help get there I hoarded months of allowances.
I was ten, felt grown,I finally was going somewhere on my own.
You folded the ironed tee-shirts and skivvies—you even ironed and creased my dungarees.
In Southern drawl: "And of course you'll dress for dinner!"
you said, packing with the rest my one blazer, dress shirts, and red tie.
I didn't protest, I was an innocent stander-by.
(The suitcase was a new brown Samsonite.Even empty that thing never was light.)
First exhilarating day—after softball, archery, diving instruction (which I took to swimmingly)—came rest hour.
While others took a shower or wrote postcards home,
I dressed for dinner:the white shirt, the pre-tied striped tie,
the navy jacket. In process I received a wry glance from my counselor.
The dinner bell tolled,I felt every bit the gentleman
as I strolled toward the rustic dining room.
I entered, the room exploded with boyish hoots and laughter,
pointing at me, the funniest thing they'd seen.
They still had on their shorts or jeans.
The rest of the two weeks were impossible.
Not chosen for any teams, called a fool,
Mother, I was miserable through and through.
But when I came home I never told you.
"Letter to My Mother" by Robert Phillips, from Spinach Days. © JHU Press, 2000.
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What? You've never listened to The Writer's Almanac? Oh dear. Well, now you can go here and listen for yourself.(Click on 'Listen.') Perhaps some of you will understand my early morning enchantment. Perhaps.
(Any other faithful listeners of The Writer's Almanac out there in Blogland?)
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"Be well, do good work and keep in touch." ... Garrison Keillor
A Christian man I know said he had so much compassion for the poor, hopeless people of this world that it made him sad, like, all the time.
He cried for poor, lonely people, prayed for them, of course, too. And over time I watched him become, well, paralyzed. He felt so sad, so much 'compassion,' that he became overwhelmed and could think of little else besides how vast numbers of people are being mistreated and having hard lives.
He became mad at Christians who didn't do enough and at his own limitations and ended up helping no one.
Another Christian, a woman author, says she feels great compassion for single mothers having rough times and teens, too, who are wandering so far from God. She often comes across these people, and unlike the man above, at least she gives to them what God nudges her to give, be it money or gifts or just the right words they need to hear. So that's wonderful, but she always feels it's never enough. And the majority of her years she's spent in sadness--if she's not grieving emotionally for herself, she's grieving for/with others in trouble. Usually both.
In everything, there is balance, as well as seasons. A time to weep with those who weep--yes! But that season is not 24/7 all the days of our lives, for the Bible also adds there's a time to rejoice and dance and praise God with joyful songs and to see good days.
True, godly hope--I think that's what may be missing in the hearts of those sad, 24/7 weepy Christians who say they're just extra compassionate.
I mean, godly hope is full of anticipation! Pray some prayers with godly hope and you'll look forward to their being answered. To you, it's just a matter of time and--in the meantime--you can hold onto that anticipation that God will come through.
And that is what matters most--that I believe God will come through and save the day, heal the hurt, become the friend who sticks closer than a brother. Not that I rush around, by myself, trying to save the world and be the all in all for the whole silly Planet. Uh, no. (That may sound funny, but I've known people who believe they are called to do that.)
No, I cannot help every single poor, downcast person in this world, but then, God would never ask one person to do so! (Personally, I don't believe He'd put the burden of the whole world upon one single heart, either.) We all have different callings, we are each a necessary piece in this huge puzzle.
What remains is for each of us to do his/her own small part in meeting those needs, so that in turn, all needs will be met.
And if God asks us to do a thing? He'll enable us to complete it. It will get done without leaving us prostrate, exhausted, sick upon a couch, all helpless. God isn't mean or foolish like that. Always, God sends Grace along to help lift and encourage us.
If He's asking us to help three people, then He'll equip us to help three people. But we're being foolish if we allow ourselves to throw up our hands, to become paralyzed because we're unable to help three million souls, instead. Or the whole neighborhood, the entire town or the complete county.
With obedience, comes joy, which then becomes our strength to complete any task in season or out. And always, God is enough.
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The goal is never that we become anyone's everything. That goal is God's, alone.
"And without faith it is impossible to please Him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who seek Him." ... Hebrews 11:6
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