At War

I am kind of at war with technology. There are aspects I love, like digital cameras, editing tools, word docs, the connection on social media (This is a mixed bag!). But this constant phone connection thing has me perplexed and sometimes irritated.

Now granted, one feels safer going places, especially at night, with a cell phone, knowing you have instant help and connection should you need it. But when you can’t enjoy a meal without people checking their phones, or when folks walk across intersections on their phones, oblivious to traffic and alien invasions. Well, that’s just too much.

The other day, I was having a conversation with two individuals. I thought it was kind of fun, a pleasant connection, but . . . and here it is! Almost in synchrony, they both lifted their phones, which of course were permanently affixed to their hands anyway, and started scrolling. The conversation was done in my mid-sentence, and I was left bumbling. There was nothing else to do but walk away, and to be honest, they may not have even noticed. The connection was over and all that was left was an uncomfortable metaphorical dial tone!

I think we will wake up at some point and wonder when and where community and friendships got lost. Some will not know how it happened . . . but I can tell you.

Nothing but . . .

He is not a consumer in need of my goats and bulls,

my screaming, bloody, placating,

keeping His wrath at bay.

Even if it sounds holy, my meagre offerings,

my sacrifices that do seem to cost me something,

would never be enough to satisfy the divine quotient, fill up the ocean

of deficit

that keeps me from Him. Separated.

Does He need a partnership, my 50% to His?

Is it more quid pro quo

. . . no.

His initiative, yes. His will to draw and bless.

His all to my feeble soul, this pauper at the feet of a King,

And nothing but a

yes

I bring.

Psalm and Some

I will lift up my eyes to the hills—

. . . to Sinai? To the hills surrounding Jerusalem? To the strong, towering places?

. . . to the high places where pagans sacrifice to their puny gods?

. . . when I lift my eyes up, what do I see?

. . . This me who is in need?

From whence comes my help?

. . . certainly not from there. What help is rock, and sand, decaying with the passing of time?

. . . not from weak deities, names without substance, without strength.

My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

. . . from the Creator, who made all that I see. The One who made these hills!

. . . from the Holy One, the strong One, within, without, and above all I see.

. . . even me.

He will not allow your foot to me moved; He who keeps you will not slumber.

. . . not off-duty, not unaware. He watches, He hears, and He sees. You say so.

. . . but wait; is it my foot, too—even when I am feeling so unsteady.

Behold He who keeps Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

. . . oh, I get it, just Israel . . . or me, too? Am I not grafted in?

The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade at your right hand.

. . . keeper, shade from all harms, protector.

. . . yes, please! The assurance that I need.

The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.

. . . in His shadow, we are in His care, both day and night.

. . . But what about this pain and sorrow I am in? What will not strike us?

. . . what is it that will not strike me?

The Lord shall preserve you from all evil;

. . . so pain is not evil? Betrayal is not evil? Wait—

He shall preserve your soul.

. . . okay, that is a good thing, but I kind of wanted an earnest in the now with all this entropy and decay going on.

The Lord shall preserve your going out and your coming in from this time forth, and even forevermore.

. . . going and coming, now and then; that is Your faithfulness, right?

. . . I guess my problem arises when I assume Your faithfulness is for the preservation of my plans, my desires here and not just a bye and bye soul kind of preservation. When You said You are a faithful God, a loving God, I kind of imagined that I had some creative control of how and what that would look like, and yet . . .

. . . You are faithful to Your plan—Your plan to have nothing separate us from Your love, Your plan to redeem as many as possible, Your plan to make me a servant—and not a social influencer.

And here I thought my needs were greater than that.

. . . Hm, I will lift my eyes up, Lord, not to the hills but to the hill maker;

. . . and I best do that from a kneeling position, a supine position, because once again my will has gotten in the way.

Psalm 121

Crazy, I Know!

Growing up, I didn’t have a lot to spend on luxuries of any sort. I certainly didn’t buy clothes since most of what I wore were hand-me-downs or bought new by my parents. I was trying to remember as a college student and young adult whether I bought clothes then. Hmm. I did buy those purple hot pants and leggings when I left college to sing full time, second billing to a hard rock band. (Never wore them on stage, though, since long hippy dresses were more the thing in Christian rock circles.)

No, I didn’t shop a lot. My biggest expenditure other than food and rent was stationery and empty journals. There was just something about the blank page.

As a young mother busy raising kids, I didn’t buy much for myself. Part of it was thrift, part of it was busyness. I did sew some, but my needs weren’t great. When I got into quilting, I did spend money on fabric, but that is art, so it doesn’t count. Maybe.

When my husband and I retired, we allotted ourselves mad money accounts, and most of that has gone for photography equipment, which is indeed a luxury. But every expenditure came with a twinge of guilt–like this was unnecessary, and what about all those worthy causes out there, and what about all the needs and wants of my kids and grandkids.

A couple of weeks ago, I bought myself an air fryer. I don’t need an air fryer. I mean who needs another appliance to cook a better French fry? I have gone back and forth about its usefulness, my worthiness, my . . . who knows what! But I have decided it is just plain fun to have something new–something to experiment with. I went on Amazon and bought myself two 100% cotton nighties (not made in China!). And I am thinking that though I don’t need it at all, I may just go out and buy myself some expensive non-stick frying pans! And I may even buy the domain for this blog rather than just using the freebee.

It’s not that I am throwing caution to the wind, but I have decided I might deserve a little extravagance that goes beyond need. Crazy, I know.

Remembering Grey Moments

The whup, whup of the medivac helicopter matched the beat of blood, pulsing in my ears. I couldn’t breathe. My hands were clenched in front of me. A position of prayer, I think. A blur. Help, Jesus.

They were talking to him in his shredded blue Grand “Was.” He was alive, but he looked dazed, moving in slow motion, or else I was seeing in slow motion.

The officer kept asking me stupid questions, keeping me from running to the car. I answered with one part of my brain as the rest of my soul and mind searched the accident scene for hope that my boy was going to be okay.

*********************

It was a long journey, but he survived. That was one of those grey moments of life, though, when peace and ease are exchanged in a moment for panic and desperate prayers.

The photo of the wrecked car is on my other blog here:

http://www.apronheadlilly.wordpress.com

Remembering Grey Moments

Daily Prompt: Scent

A reblog

Purify

I Want to Return

I want to return to that place—

the comfort and ignorance of childhood,

the rooftops, the trees, haylofts, and attics,

the fast river and railroad tracks that led nowhere and everywhere,

green fields and barbed wire fences, and salt licks for sampling.

Free days.

I remember the scent of my father, the oil and hay, stale manure, and Old Spice.

In church, I explored weathered hands with blackened nails,

sucking Lifesavers while adults thought about Jesus.

I remember mum in floral house dresses with sensible shoes,

baking cookies, tender crusted pies, and fried bologna we thought was a treat,

berry picking and chauffeuring to Jeffrey’s Lake for a muddy swim with leeches.

Free days, happy days—at least for a child.

I want to return to that place before the angry shouts of opposition parties,

the heated debates about border, fentanyl, and sex trafficking,

the hot tears and anger with mass shootings and invasion robberies.

To the place with unlocked doors and no coded security systems,

to the place where every neighbor was a friend and helper and

not suspected of being on some sex offender’s registry.

Free days, ignorant days.

But there is no going back, I guess;

there is no unknowing and unseeing what the world has become,

and we would desperately protect our own,

hold off the darkness as long as possible; but

somehow it seems we have dragged our little ones along to this troubled place.

But I would return if I could.

Something to think about . . .

I read a book about Canada where the author talked about a rustic resort on Baffin Island where hunters and fishermen come to “play” in the frozen north. Apparently, adequate plumbing is problematic in such a cold climate, so buckets of frozen excrement for years were put in a huge dump site, knowing that they would never thaw to cause a problem.

I hope global warming is not true!

Poets in a Blender

I think my barbaric yawp can sound

not only on Walden’s Pond,

in a metro, or

beside a red wheelbarrow, but can also sound by a mended wall,

near a road less travelled, and even in front of Herbert’s altar.

Nameless here and evermore, one of Emily’s grand nobodies.