Hard Days Are Fighting Days

Some days are just hard.
It's still dark outside but the bladder will let you sleep no longer. Throwing back the blankets with annoyance, you take care of business without really opening your eyes. Wiggling back under the covers, sleep is just about to fully take hold again... and the alarm goes off. Hitting snooze leads to an arm being flung over the side of the bed - and staying there, until it starts to tingle, go numb, and the cold exposed skin wakes you too much to be ignored. Tucking the stray arm back under the covers, sleep starts to grab hold of you again. While not really awake, you rationalize that if you are this tired, you need the sleep and should maybe skip the gym just this one morning. Resetting the alarm, snuggling in for one more hour of shut-eye, suddenly you are wide awake. With a loud sigh of exasperation you throw the covers back once more, swinging legs over the side; today will not be the day to skip the gym.

It feels good to move the body, get the blood flowing, see the sweat dripping; better than sleeping one more restless hour. But the dalliance with the alarm has put your schedule off and now you are running late. While you make it in time for the train, it required bringing your make-up bag with you to apply it while riding along to work.

Stepping off the train early, choosing to walk the rest of the way to the office, it seems like it may rain making the choice questionable. An odd mix of people are passing by on the sidewalks first thing in the morning in downtown Portland. It's the crazy homeless man that spits loud and profusely on the sidewalk along Powell's Books that grabs your attention, not so much because of his looks, smell, behavior, or spitting - but because you caught yourself walking to the far side of the curb away from him. "What ugly, unloving behavior! He isn't so different than the residents at the hotel you minister at." you chide yourself with such remonstrations. And out of the blue you hear, "He's crazy, he'd probably ask you out too since it's only crazy people that have an interest in you. Well, the crazy, and the social awkward, or the scoundrel who absconded with more of you than he should have." Suddenly you are judging every man that crosses your path, many who can be 'interesting' in Old Town. But there are those few who are dressed for work, who took some care about their appearance, and don't seem to be crazy in the least; and as you check those things off, the whiny voice asks, "Why can't someone like that ask me out? What's wrong with me that only creepy Chris is interested in me?" With the tailspin starting, the ache of loneliness scourges out your insides leaving you achingly hollow. Is it the wind or the pit on the inside causing your eyes to water? No matter, they both sting. The mind wanders, back to memories with the scoundrel, and longing stirs into the mix. Not so much for the scoundrel himself, but for the connection, the togetherness and sharing of life. Walking down memory lane leads nowhere good, so you put a halt to the amble with a road sign that reads, "He REJECTED you!" Painful, but effective. Also effective at creating an opening for evil to lob their familiar arsenal:
You are unwanted!
You are unlovable!
You are defective!
You are utterly alone!
You have been forgotten by God!

Under this heavy unrelenting barrage, you buzz yourself through the front door of the office, but walls and structure provide no protection from this kind of attack. The ride in the elevator to the 7th floor is agonizing, as you want to seek refuge under the covers that were so comforting only four hours ago, you just want to hide and wallow.

Starting everything up, while programs boot, you start to get caught up on the blogosphere.
And you read this post:
The King is Enthralled By Your Beauty

Those bombs that have been exploding in your heart start to fizzle as truth starts to break through the smoke and ash.
You are loved!
You are delighted in!
You are thought beautiful!

And if you were still doubting, this blog post shows up:
beautiful you
Another cleansing sweep of Truth washes over the battlefield of your heart, reminding you that you are indeed loved, seen, known, and thought beautiful by the almighty King of kings who is always with you. He cares so much that He orchestrated two posts, using the same verse, to send His message.


Some days are hard.
Some days you just need to fight a little harder.
Fight for truth. Fight for love. Fight for healing.
And be generous with mercy and grace.

Learning to be loved by my Creator, allowing myself to be loved by myself and others, accepting that I am loved and lovable is hard work for me. I need constant reminders. On those morning walks from Jeld-Wen field to the office I keep my eye out for hearts, love notes from God to remind me on my way of whose heart I belong to and where I am kept tight.

"Hearts Abound"

What Tells of a Life?

I have been sorting through photos of my recent European adventure over the last week. A co-worker insisted that I put together a slide-show and do a "brown bag" lunch for a small group. I would have resisted but this is also the same co-worker who arranged free lodging with extended relatives in Krakow and lent me two camera lenses for the trip. I could hardly refuse such a simple request after all he had done for me.

The trouble is, I took pictures through my point of view, with my interests in mind, we all do. But as I sort through my 1700 photos I realize what interests me probably isn't very entertaining for others. Photos of my friends, who mean nothing to my co-workers.  Lots of doors and architectural details, kinda geeky. Photos of places that I want to remember for the memories they trigger, but objects that are not too special in their own right (the clock at Ceska for example). I take some fairly random pictures too. I am not very pleased with the bulk of the photos - bad composition, poor lighting, lack of focus. So that eliminated quite a few photos right there, but there should be enough remaining to get through a lunch show n' tell.

In the sorting and sifting I noticed another category of photos that I tend to snap, they are some of my favorites, photos that show life. Faces, hands - the signs of life lived. Pictures taken on the sly.

While on the tram I look down at a woman's hand holding her bag of produce and admire its wrinkled speckled beauty. Noticing the large knuckles and slight deformity, I wonder what has caused it. Perhaps it is rheumatoid arthritis, maybe my hands will look like this in 30 years. What have these hands seen and done? How many potatoes have they peeled? Whose hands have they held? What stories can this woman tell?

These gentlemen intrigued me. The lines on their faces, the dapper hair, the style of clothes. How much have they seen? Have they had trouble negotiating the transition from Communism to Democracy? Are they among the ranks that long for the 'good ol' days'? What yarns could these men spin?

And there are several more photos that I wish I could hear the stories behind the lives represented in the images. But what tells the story of a life? The lines on a face? The scars and marks that remain? What do people think of my life when they look at me? What will they think in 30 years? In 50 years? Can I cultivate a life that creases my cheeks and etches signs of love and joy so that people will look at me and think 'she lives life well.'

Proverbs 27:19 "As water reflects the face, 

   so one’s life reflects the heart."  

And what is in your heart will be reflected on your face. So what does your face say about you? Is it an accurate reflection of your heart? What do you want it to say?

Curious to see more? I uploaded all of my photos (and I do mean all) to Flickr.  I will start to weed out the ridiculous, eventually. For a more condensed overview, check out the slideshow I put together for the brown bag at work.