If Food for the Stomach, Why Not the Mind? (Asking One of the Dead Greek Guys)

Let me ask you a question.  If you knew your oatmeal was laced with arsenic, would you continue to eat it?  That may seem too loaded a question, so let me put this to you a different way.  If you found out kale was actually as unhealthful as high fructose corn syrup, do you think people would continue to eat it as we do now?

If we really thought about it, the logical next step would be to discontinue eating it.

Now look at the same topic again from a different vantage point.  When someone repeatedly drinks too much, they’re said to be addicted.  This carries the threat of bad health and death from complications.  The same goes for smoking.  The same goes for any behavior that can be dubbed addictive.  These are widely accepted precepts.

Next I’ll turn your attention to the idea of entertainment.  Music.  Books.  Games.  Movies.  These are meant to engineer “fun.”  They facilitate “escapism.”  And me—well, I’m a creative type who loves to encourage my imagination.  Imagination is how I get those deep thoughts churning for the writing I love so well.  I’ve got a doctor’s excuse, right?  And if this escapism is actually killing my soul?

Oh, we’re not supposed to think in terms like that.  We must keep things light, fluffy, and as full of substance as cotton candy.  But cotton candy rots our teeth, which are designed to slice through meat and break down vegetables.  I’m probably getting too esoteric, so I’ll break it down in blunt terms.

Think of a time when you watched a movie right before going to bed and had a dream with some of the same ingredients as the movie.  (For me, a recent example was dreaming about being operated on after a House marathon.)  The escapism lingered in my mind.  It affected me even after the fun was over.

People ask me all the time:  “Why no R-rated movies?”  “Why don’t you listen to secular music?”  And you know, sometimes, I don’t feel like I have a solid reason.  Recently, however, my resolve was renewed.

I read a book that has been lauded for about 20 years; it’s currently enjoying success on a cable mini-series.  It was so highly touted that I thought I’d give the author a shot.  Being an 800-page epic, I knew it would keep me occupied for a while.  The first 200 pages were slow going, but things got intriguing after that.  Then, I started noticing something:  the negative, bad events in the story lingered in my mind like a trauma that happened to me.  Scenes echoed in my head like the words of a top-40 song in department stores.  It felt like everywhere I turned my thoughts led back to that same garbage.

I felt like I needed to spring-clean my mind.

Some ask, why no R-rated movies?  Because I can’t unsee what I’ve seen.  Because I can’t put my brain in a bath and Calgon-away the memories of something that injures my humanity.  Because I have been down that road before, and I know it doesn’t lead anywhere good.  Scattered from beginning to the end of the Bible, I read that the faithful will see God’s face…  I want that.

Some ask, why no secular music?  Because words have power.  Words I say and words I hear.  If Mark Twain could live a month on a good compliment and I’m charged with speaking life to people around me, I can’t intentionally pour a deadly poison in someone’s ear.  Because the ear tests words the way the tongue tastes food (Job 12:11).

Some say, why not continue if you have already begun?  Because I will not continue to eat arsenic-laced oatmeal.  No, I cannot put my mind in a bath and receive a convenient case of amnesia.  But Jesus can cleanse me (i.e. Luke 17).  When I call His name and ask Him to wash away the filth I invited into my mind, my mouth, my life, He washes me.  Just like He did with the lepers along the road.  He says the word, and it’s done.

“Go.  The opposite direction you were going before.”

When I get whirled around and disoriented.  When I start walking on the old road on purpose.  He meets me and says, “Go.  The opposite direction you were going before" (i.e. Prov. 24:16).

Name, Rank & Serial Number

Kids have the greatest knack for being literal, causing you to question how you communicate, explain, teach.  A couple of the absolutely brilliant boys I mentor heard me say a phrase one night, and all of a sudden, I was explaining something so much bigger than just the literal –and they were getting it.

The phrase was “name, rank, and serial number.”

For someone like me who grew up with ex-military around, the meaning is  as innate as the verb to be.  Not so for these 10-year-olds.  They have lived their years in San Francisco, probably with little exposure to military speak.  How to explain it then…?

I didn’t want to talk to them about Guantanamo Bay or ISIS/ISIL/Islamic State.  I didn’t want to talk in more terms they wouldn’t understand.  I didn’t want this to be a moment when their curious eyes glazed over because the boring adult couldn’t teach them.--  Oh, I knew what I didn’t want.

Deep breath.  And the briefest call to God as I dove in.

“Name, rank, and serial number?  It’s like when you’re a soldier and the enemy catches you.  Sometimes they want to find out stuff, so they ask you a bunch of questions.  But you’ve been trained to say the same thing over and over:  name, rank, and serial number.

“So if Satan comes and asks, ‘who do you think you are? You’re nobody,” you can say, ‘I’m M--.  I’m a son of the Most High God, and He has a plan for my life.’”  I turned to look at the other boy.  “And you can say, ‘I’m J--.  I’m a son of the Creator of everything that ever was.  He made me in His image, and I’ve been chosen to show you who He is.’”

Even as I write this, it seems like a lot for a kid to comprehend.  But in reality, they can handle more spiritual meat than we give them credit for.  These growing guys got it.  The conversations we’ve had since then show that they get it.  So regardless of whether someone tells them they’re not cool or not good enough or whatever, they’re learning that because God’s word is always true, they don’t have to worry about the lies.  They’re memorizing their identity in Christ.  They’re letting Him etch it into their hearts and memories.  Each day, they’re learning what it means to know who they are.

I could do with a little refresher myself sometimes.  “I am Valonna, daughter of the King, Who brought me out of misery to bring me into joy” (Deut. 6:23).

Cliffwalking

The piece you're about to read is one I wrote about a year and a half ago.  I was going through a ton of change, heading to a new level in God.  Giving Him things I’d held very tightly.  God had me taking prayer walks through different parts of the city.  On one particular walk, I knew the destination at the beginning, but partway through, I felt like God was telling me to take a detour.  It didn’t make sense to me, but I figured, “hey, I’m following God, so I might as well follow Him this way too.  What’ve I got to lose?”  So I made the turn, and it quickly became apparent that I was actually going to get to my destination sooner than the previous route would have got me there.  In my spirit, I could hear God telling me, “See?  You’re worried that the detour is taking you farther away, but it’s actually bringing you closer to where I want you to go.”

That conversation inspired this, which I read at a Coffeehouse Fundraiser for the 2014 Philippines Mission Trip.

*     *     *

You’re so very near me.

We’re standing beside a precipice, so close to the edge, I think one deep breath might send me flying.  The deep breath before the dive…

You look at me with protective pride and say, “My daughter.”

You look at me with jealous fervor, “My bride.”

You whisper to me, “My protégée.”

Here I stand, emboldened by awe.  My God, my All in All.

You look at me, and I remember who I am, who I want to be.  When I look in Your eyes, there’s an ache in me that only sinks deeper as I draw closer.

You hold Your arms wide to hug me tight to Your side.  You hold Your arms wide to keep the world at bay:  “Nothing will snatch you from Me,” You say.

You clutch my hand and gently… insistently… pull me along this path I can barely see.  I ask you over and over where we’re going.

            It’s when I’m quiet I can hear you say like a lover, “Trust Me.”

It’s then You stand behind me, so close I can feel Your lungs expand with each breath.  You cover my eyes with Your hands.  I can feel Your right foot move forward, so I step with my right leg.  Not too far, partly because Your grip on me is firm, and partly because I don’t want to lose contact with You.

            “I trust You.”

I can hardly hear myself say it.  Again, with more fortitude.  “I trust You.”

Off to the side, I think I hear something.  What is it?  Some attacker?  A harmless animal?  I turn my head toward the sound, but Your fingers guide me back to center.  There’s a din up ahead, and fear of that sound makes me bristle, but You’re still right there.

            You are undeterred.

            I am locked into step with You.

            We are stepping forward.

“Oh, God, what’s going on?  I need to see where I’m going.”

“No, you don’t.  Trust Me.”

Something inside me starts to resist You.  Why can’t I see?  I have a right!  How can I show others the way if I don’t know how to describe the landmarks?  Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m prying Your fingers away from my eyelids.  I NEED to see what’s up ahead.

Just as one eye gets a peek, I hear Your voice in my ear.  There’s something there…in Your voice… like You’re more determined for me to make it than I am.  Your voice:  it’s not loud, but it’s so… strong.

            It makes me pause.

            “This is the way.  Walk in it.”

This is the way?  Something like a wave of certainty floods through me, and I’m suddenly so anchored in You, the edge of this cliff no longer taunts me.

How can I deny You?  I know how You see me.  You see worth in me when no one including me sees any.  You call me Wanted when I am rejected and forgotten.  No, to You, I am Wanted.

Walk in it?  The fear barking all around me grows quiet at Your command.  When we stand this close, there is nothing that can drown out Your words.

How can I deny You?  You love me and call me Loved when I KNOW  I am unlovely.

You, who teach me when I am dull and confused.  You tuck me next to You and explain mysteries.  To You, I am Confidante.

How could I deny You Your heart’s desire?  To walk with me on this perilously narrow trail, too insignificant to be called a road…

            …

            “If this is the way, I will walk in it.”

Hope Rising

This poem was featured in an multimedia art gallery for the 2013 Christmas Celebration at Glad Tidings Church.

Deep night

On a voyage just begun.

She looks down at her baby’s face…

A journey to a new town for a labor she’d never expected.

Strangers all around them:  nameless shepherds and anonymous nobles.

They were here to worship her Son.

She couldn’t have imagined this night.

She sensed there was more to unfold.

It would explode like a star in the sky

                                                           Tomorrow?

                                                                              Years from now?

She could only wonder, and so she

                                        Treasured

                                                                               these things in her heart.

* * *

She walked toward the garden

Clutching spices in her hands.

She fought the heaviness,

The sickening numbness that engulfed her heart.

She still couldn’t believe He was gone.

She didn’t know that His eyes were trained on her approach.

How He loved her, this frail human in His repairing grasp.

His eyes warmed as He thought how she would

Live and

               Love and

                               Speak of His heart to others.

She stumbled closer to the tomb,

And He remembered how He’d

                                   Treasured

                                                                           them all

             —all the unlovely and unlovable ones—

      as He stumbled under that cumbersome cross.

It wasn’t on the pain He focused

—that was only a fickle torment.

No, He lingered on the plans His Father had for their future.

He

    Treasured

                          those plans as though they were for Him.

She looked up into His face and gasped, seeing a stranger.

She didn’t know Him yet.

But then, the world had only begun to know Him. 

Hope had risen like a beacon star in the night sky.

What Does My Worship Look Like?

What does my worship look like?

It has to look like more than a mere song and dance.  “I will not offer to God that which costs me nothing.”  It costs me girlish ignorance.  It costs my abdicating a task.  Instead, I find myself getting dusty, sweaty, and climbing scary heights.  I give up service, not because I’m scheduled to do it but because someone else needs it.

God, You want worship from a willing heart, one that counts the cost at the outset but doesn’t meditate on it every step of the way.  So, God, help me give to You something I have that You want.

A heart willing to die for You.

Is that so foreign then?

We say we’re dying for water or chocolate or fill-in-the-blank.  Sometimes we even say we’d die for You.  A death that is entirely too figurative for Your liking.  You’re looking for a heart that feels like it’s dying if I don’t aim to please You.  Maybe that’s the key.  It’s doesn’t matter as much what the target of the arrow is as where I stand when I shoot it.

Do I stand on a plain of thorny discontent?  Worship is pleasing God.  “Grumble, grumble, murmur” almost guarantees missing the target.

“Here is my heart.  It hurt to pull it from my chest, but here it is, God” means He smiles.

He accepts.

He meets.

He exults.

He gives me His heart in turn.

I will not offer to God that which costs me nothing.  Joyfully, I will delight in giving Him my heart.

Remember

Remember.

The chorus word God tells His people.  Remember who He is and what He's done.  Remember who they are in relation to and because of Him.

Um, me too.

I stand convinced I've been struggling with my identity so much for so long becuase I forget.  That also lines up with what God told me last fall:  Don't keep finding out who you are only to forget again.

I run around forfeiting my territory and my rightful claims on God's promises.  As a result, I go grasping for any facsimile that looks good at the time.  I'm left weak, bitter, adrift.  No wonder James 1:5-8 cuts me like a knife.  It's meant to.

No wonder I feel abandoned.  I've haven't been left; I've left.  That's the crux of the issue.  I run over every parcel of land, screaming, "God's left me.  He's failed me."  The fact is, I've deserted the place He prepared for me, where there is shade from the sun and cool water to drink.  If His embrace is my shield (Genesis 15:1), I've left His embrace over and over.

Then I get attacked.

When I leave Him, peace leaves me.  I'm open season for old attacks:  rejection, anger, pride, doubt.  Wow.  I don't know that I've ever seen it this starkly before, sans altar experience.  I've somewhat identified parallels between my relationship with God and Gomer's with Hosea.  Ouch.

Create in me a clean heart, Oh God,
And renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from Thy presense, Oh Lord,
And take not Thy holy spirit from me.
Restore unto me the joy of Thy salvation,
And renew a right spirit within me.

"When the pattern is right, the glory will fall." --Joe Oden

God, I want a new pattern.

Taken from a prayer written on 27 March 2011.

Notes on a Rainbow

Timeline:

April - August 2009:  God makes a series of surprising promises to me, confirmed by multiple sources including the Bible and my discipler.

April 2009 - present:  I struggle with my impatience to receive these awesome prizes . . . er, promises at their appointed time.

(If you don't believe in God or promises from Him, don't feel excluded.  I hope that you read this and glean value from it.)

A thank-you note I've drafted to God any number of times since April:

Dear God,

Thank you very much for the lovely promise you sent me.  I look forward to using it daily, as I have gradually become aware of what a great idea it is You have for me.  I'm excited for the opportunities this holds and the adventures it implies.  Especially appreciated was the double rainbow (of course You know how much we both love rainbows) You sent me in November as a reminder You don't make offhanded offers.  My one request is that You speed this whole process up.  After all, this whole plan of Yours is brilliant; I just want to make sure I get to those promises soon so I can enjoy them do Your will.

Grace and Peace direct from You,
Valonna

The response from God any time I stop to listen:

Dearest Valonna,

Beloved Daughter, I am pleased that you like My gift so much.  When I see your excitement and hear your anticipation, I am filled with pride to call you Mine.  Never for a moment doubt the pleasure I receive when you appreciate even the smallest gift.  Do not be impatient though, My love.  Think of this promise as a rainbow, and don't focus on the pot of gold at the end.  Stop for a moment and really look at the rainbow.  Drink in its beauty.  Luxuriate in its nuances as one color flows to the next.  The gold is a reward, but it is not the only thing of value, and I must caution you:  you won't receive it if you don't follow Me to the end (it's far too dangerous to go without Me).  So again, I ask you to savor this promise and be at peace.  I will not lead you astray, and I promise not to take too long.

Your Loving Father,
God (AKA Abba, YHWH, etc.)

Well, crap, He's gone and called me out with one of my favorite "objects" in nature.  And sure enough, I do like the look of rainbows more than a pot of gold, and He knows that.  But shh, don't tell the leprechauns; they show their foul tempers when you impugn their hoards.

So . . . look at the rainbow.  Stare at the pretty colors.  Watch the rainbow . . .  and basically ignore the pot of gold for now.

Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog

Jeremiah. The first chapter. The verse: 17.

Get. Yourself. Ready!

I'm still trying to figure out what this means, but I woke up with it in my brain.

If people doubt that God still speaks through His word, send them to me. Be warned though; so far all I can do with this verse is point and hyperventilate. Get yourself ready. That's Him talking, TO ME, terrifying me with the power He's offering. Yes, power is the word. The verse warns me not to be terrified of them. Why be terrified of them? God's doing a fine job scaring the bejeezus out of me all on His own. His plans for me (just in claiming me for His own) are HUGE. And I can't quite fathom it. Heck, in truth, I can't fathom it at all.

This is the fear of the Lord, and it is on me. Luke 4:18. My God (!), I can't be shy. It's not allowed. I have to be soft and mighty. I have to get myself ready. There's no more hide and seek; just seek. There's no more excuses. . . . And the plain fact is, I know I will fail--or at least feel inept (Jer. 1:6). Yet, He doesn't accept excuses (v. 10), because in Him, I don't need them.

"What do you see, Valonna? What do you hear?"

"Get yourself ready for God knows what."

--Part of an email exchange on 18 September 2009

Prayer #1

This is my prayer, Lord: that You reveal the secret petitions of my heart so that I'll know what I desire.

Let my heart yearn for communion with You, to such a degree that men, career, friends, and finances take a backseat. I want to turn to You first with happy news, aches and pains, and emotional woes and complaints. I want Your advice, to hear Your voice telling me, "This is the way." Please help me to follow You, to discern Your will. Don't let me be deceived back into the old comfort zone. Let me ask with authority for things I long for, and I will rely on You to take care of everything.

This is my prayer, Lord: that I love You first and foremost, that You bless me in that.

Yet Another Awkward Epiphany

You know that point in fiction where the character speaking gradually slows to a halt, mid-sentence, goes slack-jawed, and does a mental about-face? It's smooth, seamless, and a dozen other things that make the audience wish they had an epiphany every hour, on the hour.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, that has never happened for me. Reality is usually messier and--without fail--more embarassing. Take my complete lack of humility in career transition for instance. It should have gone something like this:

Valonna: Good morning, God. Love ya. You're awesome, which you know of course, 'cause you know all. I was thinking about trying to find a new job that's right for me, suited to the talents and passions you instilled in me. I ask most humbly for your blessing in the search, transition, and new adventure. Guide me, and I will follow you.

God: Thanks for coming to me with this, Valonna. I love you, and I'm always happy to give you your heart's desire. And I'm sure I don't have to remind you that I'll make certain the timing is perfect for my plans before you see much happening on your end.

Valonna: Oh, absofrigginlutely. You're infallible on that score, never late, rarely early. Just keep talking me through the process so I don't go batty.

God: Of course.

Instead, the conversation went something like this:

Valonna: Oh, yeah . . . God, I've decided you will bless me with a new and completely friggin' awesome job. You couldn't have given me these talents and passions for no reason, so I will let you do your thing and hook me up. I expect everything on my timetable and on my own terms. Naturally, this will be a stress-free and easy process.

[God rubs his forehead, chuckles ever so minutely, and grins at his Son.]

Valonna: [looks around for source of laughter] . . . God . . . ? God . . . ?

Um, yeah, humility is never my forte. And in a meeting Wednesday, mid-sentence, nearly slack-jawed, I found myself stricken with Epiphanitis. (Thankfully a pretty mild bout, whose side effects happen to include a runny nose.) I've been expecting all this blessing from God, wrestling around with Him, struggling to keep up my faith. All without ever asking Him for the blessing, without exercising any real faith. Now I'm pinned, convicted, rather humbled; embarassed as usual.

Thankfully, God's not too into embarassing me. That's all my own doing. He was totally cool when I went back to Him and said . . . .

Really? You expect to eavesdrop on all of a girl's conversations with God? Nope, no verbatim recountings on this one. Suffice it to say, we're cool, we've discussed timing, humility, etc. I know I'm decidedly in the dark on some things, but He's drilling me on how to get over it. Namely, He's whispering in my ear, "Chill out. Don't worry. I won't leave you out in the cold. I didn't give you those talents and passions for no reason, but you don't see the full picture. You'll come along fine. Stick with Me, and you will be blessed, just by virtue of hanging out with Me."

Huh. You got a soundbite after all, and yes, He really does sound like that.

God on the Floor

Never before have I felt crushed to the floor by God’s will. Tonight took care of that hole in my repertoire. Not only did I feel His command, once I was lying face down on the floor, I was hard-pressed to move. And I cried so hard, buggers dripped from my stuffy nose.

I’m not telling you this to gross you out. I’m telling you this because . . . well, in actuality, I’m really just talking to hear myself talk at this point. This is what is known as catharsis. What my old professor (he is old, but also is my former professor) called “mind sprints.” Not supposed to stop typing ‘til the cursor reaches the bottom of the page. And if it’s not coherent, so be it. Frankly, what is coherent to me is frequently incoherent to others, so it’s no real loss if a mind sprint finds its way into the “eh?” column of people’s Valonna dealings.

Anyway, before tonight, I had always been “able” to say, “No, thanks, God. I’m good. No need to put my face on the carpet in order to bond with you.” He was having none of that, would not take no for an answer, and other clichés. Instead, I admitted I was overwhelmed, with nowhere to go but down on the floor before I could move upward again, and it struck me: vulnerability reeks.

Like those filthy rags we’re warned about in the Bible.

Yet there I lay, admonished, knowing I had to acknowledge not only vulnerability, but fallibility. Where was my back-up plan, my self-reliance? My friggin’ I-am-an-island-ness. God had stripped that away, as surely as He had my address during my Peregrination Period. I begged money from my mom, only to have it absorbed into bank overage fees, leaving me nothing, no money whatsoever for transportation or food.

And yet my friends all state, “He never gives you more than you can handle.” His strength is made perfect in my weakness. Well, I sure feel weak, but I'm not seeing how I can handle anything prostrated on the floor. Except maybe a hunger strike.