A Second Look

"You are not your writing."  Like the passing of a baton in a relay, the wise words my friend received during her own writers "rite of passage", were now being handed to me.  "Keep writing." she rallied.  My ego was sore, and my pride bruised but her encouragement gave me second wind.  Being new to the writing world, I had never taken into consideration the possibility of my writing being turned down.  I had gotten my first rejection e-mail and it was heart breaking. I took it personally and felt utterly..... rejected.   My husband passed on his own words of wisdom after watching me pout and sulk around the house, " If you want to stay with it, you're going to have to develop a thick skin, and quick....There's more comin'."  He was right. In my sea of sent out material (ok, slight exaggeration.....I only sent out 10 so far!), only one, small seashell of a story has been excepted.  This whole writing thing is painful and the uncomfortable feelings forced me to rethink what I was doing, where I was going....and why.  I started to re-strategize.  Maybe I need to protect myself a little bit and put less of myself in my writing.  Maybe I'm sharing too much.......maybe.........My thoughts started to trail as my eyes became fixed upon a picture of an adorable teenage boy smiling at me from my face book page.  I didn't recognize him, but there was something oddly familiar that grabbed at my heart and pulled me in.  I squinted my eyes and my brows furrowed as I examined him closer.  Have I seen him before???  Curious, I began to read his story and my heart dropped down to the very souls of my feet.  I held my breath and forgetting to swallow, my throat began to dry.  The picture blurred and as I struggled to blink back the tears, I realized, he was someone I knew....... someone I  haven't seen for a long, long time.................

My beautiful brother, Henry

"Who's that?" one of the kids ask, looking over my shoulder.  I took a deep breath and re-introduced my kids to their Uncle Henry.  The room grew quiet as memories came flooding back, the kids, remembering bits and pieces that I had told them over the years, and me, remembering a miracle among the debris of pain and heartbreak.  I quietly reminded them of how he died.  A tragic, gruesome death at 17 by a single gun shot to the head.  With tears, I told the kids of my excruciating last memory of my brother and the precious memory Jesus graciously and mercifully gave me to replace it.

The last time I saw my brother, he was taunting me from the bottom of the stairs.  It had the beginnings of a bad day!  My hair wasn't working, I was going to be late for a job I hated, and my annoying beast of a brother wouldn't stop teasing me!  Feeling abused and boiling over with anger, I stormed out of the bathroom and hurled my brush at him as hard as I could throw it.  Like a scratched DVD, my memory halts frozen on a snapshot of him looking up at me; his mischievous eyes glistening and mouth wide open with laughter.  Henry left for school that morning.... and never came back.   After he died, I was riddled with guilt that I could have contributed to the deep pain that caused him to feel like the "basket case" that he wrote about in his goodbye letter.  Why didn't I know?  Why did I have to yell at him?  I was plagued with the What ifs and Should haves and I felt as if I had helped pull the trigger.

My brothers death was so violent and gruesome, we had to have a closed casket for his viewing and funeral.  It just didn't seem real.  Are they sure they had my brother?  I mean, maybe they made a mistake and he was still out there somewhere.  I mustered up the strength and asked my dad if I could see Henry; I just had to see for myself and be sure.  My dad refused and told me he wanted the last image of my brother to be a happy one.  A happy one?  No one knew of my fight with Henry and the awful, last memories I harbored painfully in my heart.  I had no closure, no chance to say goodbye and I longed desperately to see him..... one more time.....if just for a moment to say I was sorry.  The unchangeable, irreversible, "forever-laid-in-cement" circumstances laid heavy on my heart as horrible nightmares plagued me night after sleepless night.  The graphic and brutal dreams filled me with terror and hauntingly replayed like a broken record in my mind during the day.  I was exhausted, guilt ridden and full of so much pain.  I missed my brother, I wanted to fix things with him.....but it was too late.......

I thought it was another nightmare.  Sobbing, I sat on a floor in a huge room surrounded by friends and family whose hearts were as heavy as mine.  My pain could not be comforted and what I needed, no one was able give.  The rooms murmurs turned to hushed silence as a strange, yet beautiful figure approached.  In awe, I slowly rose to my feet and relief flooded my body as the remedy to my pain stood directly in front of me.  My beautiful little brother was breathtaking!  Flawless and glowing I could see his joy was full as his luminous smile filled the room.  He never spoke but I could hear him somehow and I literally could feel his words.  My heart felt as though it were going to explode with the overwhelming sorrow I felt as he told me how deeply sorry he was for causing me pain.  He didn't want me hurting anymore.   Tears of joy, relief, and mourning clouded my vision as another figure came into view and stood alongside my brother.  Jesus put his arms around Henry and smiled.  His brilliant, smiling face and body language repeated my brother's last words.  He was happy, safe....and completely whole.   I didn't want him to go...but I didn't want him to stay......I knew my brother was home.  Forever burned in my memory is the image of my brother being gently led off with Jesus' strong arm across his back.  I watched as they walked together, and as they disappeared in the soft light, my heart finally felt peace.

Originally, I had thought this dream was meant only for me.  I kept it tucked away safely in my heart, revealing it only to my sister and mom as soon as I woke on that beautiful, new glorious morning. Jesus took away that last, horrible memory I had of my brother and replaced it with a triumphant new one full of hope, contentment and peace.  I cried with my kids as I shared Jesus'  priceless gift to me that night.  Sharing with my kids this intimate moment was like a dose of reality of the amazing love of our Savior who is able to bring comfort in the way that no one else can.

Instinctively, when we get hurt we want to pull back and put our hearts safely on the highest shelf.  The heartbreaking picture of the sweet boy on facebook that stirred long buried memories of my beloved brother was a shocking reminder why I feel the need to write but a news story that aired a few weeks prior featuring Steuben glass, gave me a clear picture as to what the Lord wants done with my writing.  Since 1933, the Steuben glass company has been producing spectacular masterpieces of glassware "art" using lead crystal considered to be the clearest of all glasses.  Each piece is painstakingly inspected for the tiniest of flaws which allows only 1 in 5 glass creations to actually leave the factory.  The most valuable and prized pieces of Steuben are on display in various museums around the country and are tucked away safely behind protective walls of glass.  Amongst the elegant army of glittering and shimmering display pieces, a simple crystal plate bearing a single flower outshines all the rest.  The plate, designed and once owned by famed artist Georgia O'Keeffe, gained quite a bit of attention when, upon closer inspection, was noticed that her once flawless piece of Steuben was far from perfect.  Covered in knife marks, it was evident Ms. O'Keeffe opted against hiding her priceless piece of art, and actually put her plate to use!  She didn't display her crystal plate like most owners of a Steuben masterpiece would, but she chose to use her piece and share it.  Like Georgia O'Keeffe's crystal plate, Jesus wants our hearts to be transparent and shared with others.  Is it going to be painful?  Without a doubt, but it is a far worse fate to be sitting high on a shelf underneath a blanket of dust to not but used for the function you were designed for.

I googled, researched and thought long and hard what the phrase "You are not your writing" means.  I still don't fully understand it, but I know the Lord has made it plainly clear, He wants to be my writing.  

Are you hurting??

Paul tells us in II Chorinthians 1 that our Lord Jesus is the Father of Mercies and the God of all comfort.  Please don't hide your heart high on a shelf like my brother did, share your pain today with the Lord and the people that love you.  You are a priceless and beautiful creation, excelling even the most treasured of Steubens!

Perfect Already

It was love at first sight!  It caught my eye and beckoned me over as soon as I crossed through the door and over the antique stores threshold.  I ran my hand over the top of the huge, 12 person table and thought how perfect it would look in my 1800's farmhouse.  I wasn't shocked to see a price tag I couldn't afford but my heart skipped a beat when I saw the date that matched the age of our house.  As the rest of my family slowly sauntered off, I stayed behind daydreaming about this gorgeous piece and mentally added it to my "dream" list of  "must have- gotta have -someday" items.  Who sat at this table?  Who put all these neat nicks, dents and scratches in the top? I smiled wondering if it were naughty, little children careless with their knives and forks....did they get in trouble?  There were deeper slices and gouges that made my imagination soar.   Maybe this table doubled as a cutting board for Ma, or an emergency surgery table like I read about in my favorite book, "Mrs. Mike." Most would look at this old, beat up and worn table and see only flaws and imperfection.  Immediately restoration would come to mind... and only then would it be perfect. "No", I thought, with my fingers running over a deep gouge, "it's perfect already."

"Yuck!"  I moan.   Disappointed, I shake my head and scrunch up my nose in disgust at the woman staring back at me from my bathroom mirror.   My shoulders slump as I wonder out loud, "I still feel like me.....why can't I look like me!"  It's hard watching the slow, gradual and unstoppable transformation of aging!  The ever growing, sagging bags under my once bright, youthful eyes, the deep creases that are taking up permanent residence on both sides of my ever paling lips, age spots, zits (Still!  As if wrinkles aren't enough to deal with) and the refusal of my aging eyes to wear my beloved contacts.  Pulling back the skin on my face, I call my husband over.  "MUCH better, isn't it?" I ask waiting for his reply.  He matter-of-factly answers, "Yeah, great if you like looking like a freaky alien."  "What does he know!" I think to myself as I grab for my bag of tricks to hide all my forming imperfections.  Smearing on my foundation, I sense His disappointment.  He sees the beauty..........why can't I?

Helpless, my husband stood quietly by as the brushes, powders, pencils and tweezers worked at a frenzied pace.  Frustrated at the limitations of my Cover-girl age defying foundation and its inability to cover age spots, my eyes filled with tears and my voice choked as the flood of negative and hurtful adjectives rushed out of my mouth and over my tongue.  As my soul purged its true feelings about my appearance, in my ear, I could hear ever so softly, a hissed, "Yessssssssssssss!"  Through bloodshot eyes, I could see the pain on my husbands face, mirroring how my Jesus felt.  Chills ran down my spine at the realization that the hurling insults that were meant for me, deflected off the mirror and hit the two people I love the most.  My blood ran cold sensing Satan's pure delight at the sight of the devastation my flood left behind.  My words hung heavy in the air as my husband held me tight and bravely became the first to organize the clean up. He spoke from his heart as he gently put my feet back on stable ground, "Please don't take this wrong but if your face were burnt off tomorrow, I'd love you just the same.  I love you."

Satan slithered further into the shadows as Psalms 139:14 was whispered to my heart.  I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Fearfully, I learned, means with great reverence and heartfelt interest; wonderfully meaning unique and set apart. I was fashioned from my Master's hands with care, love and with purpose (Isaiah 44:24). No one is like me...no one's story reads like mine.... I am uniquely marvelous! Being discontented with the way I look or the way I am, is a direct insult to the One who I am made in the image of.  If I despise myself, than I must also despise my Saviour!  Being held by my husband, I picture Jesus as part of the embrace. Satan was no where to be seen as I became cradled in the arms of forgiveness.

We went back to the antique store, and my table was gone.  I stood in the empty spot and silently hoped that whoever bought my table appreciated every nick, dent and scratch.  That table had a beautiful story to tell and it was perfect just the way it was.  The antique store around me slowly disappeared as I saw Jesus come into view.  Smiling, He put His hands firmly on my shoulders, and gently squeezed as he looked at me.  Uncomfortable, my eyes look down at my feet as I feel Him examining every crease, age spot and wrinkle; lifting my face to meet His, He lovingly whispers, "Perfect already."   Maybe that beautiful table was never meant for my kitchen, but for my heart instead.