I Am a Work of Kintsugi

I just learned about an art form that is the perfect metaphor for understanding how God uses our brokenness for his amazing purposes.

In Japan, there are craftsmen who repair broken pottery with a special kind of glue that is infused with 24-carat gold. This practice, called Kintsugi, is based on the thought that a piece of pottery is worthy enough to be restored. The history each piece holds is valued to such a point that the artisan is willing to make it of even greater value. What was rubbish now becomes precious.

I love knowing about this art form because I understand, first-hand how God is taking all of the pieces of my shattered being and is using them in ways beyond my imagination. Where I see ruin, He has made beauty. Where I see shards of pain and shortcomings, He has made strength and glory. Where I see raggedness, He makes loveliness.  I never fully understood this until I can see how broken pottery becomes a magnificent piece of art.

Thank you Kintsugi artisans for your amazing example of making beauty from trash.

Novel Writing is Hard

I’m working on a novel. I really don’t know why. It's my second one, but I can’t keep my focus long enough to write more than a few pages at a time. I’m at a place in the story right now that is pretty intense, and I don’t like writing it. The Pollyanna in me wants everything to be rosy and rainbows, and yet I’m writing about real life. Real people who want to hurt others, or are so caught up in their life’s drama that they don’t realize how their actions are destroying someone else. I don’t like writing about it, and so I closed the project again for today after just a page or two.

I like blogging. It is short, simple and to the point. It also only takes me a few minutes to jot into words some profound thought that makes me feel like a writer, yet without the angst of my novel work.

I’m thinking I won’t be doing any more novels after this one. Not only does it take too long (I started this one many months ago, and am not even a third of the way through), but I like the energy in short writing passages. Say what needs to be said. Find the important message. Move on.

I believe I have a lot to say, but with my child-like attention span, I am thinking it is best said in short spurts.

The funny part is, I am really okay with all of this!

When I Forget

Feeling unsettled inside. On the verge of tears, and cannot explain the inner sadness. I’m short-tempered. I say things with irrational emotion that I don’t really mean. I am forgetful, ungrateful.

It started after I had spent an overnight with my grandbabies and was headed home. I live just far enough away that I don’t get to see them more than once a month, and sometimes longer.  I hate that our time together is so sporadic.

Then, I come home to a husband who is blind, leaving me counters to scrub and dishes to wash. Dinner to fix. Wishing someone could fix dinner for me. Just once. Feeling sorry for myself. Ungrateful, stuck in what I don’t have instead of what I do.

Knowing that the battle is a spiritual one, I have come to the front lines ill-equipped. I have forgotten to take the belt of truth and the breastplate of righteousness and the footgear of readiness for peace. How did I forget? How is it even possible that I could ever forget?

The battle is on-going. Just when I think “I’ve got this!” another fiery dart comes hurling its way at me. This time, I let it find its mark, bringing much pain with it.

I humbly ask for mercy. I need to let go of myself. I seek forgiveness for striving and falling short. I want to know I am still loved, even when so unlovable.

And there He is. Waiting and still. Proving over and over again how my view of myself is not the same as His. When I can let go and just be in His presence, things become right again in my heart.

Let me always know Your presence, Lord. Help me when I forget. I want to never forget.

It Has a Name! The Diffusion of Responsibility

I have been pondering why it is so hard to speak up in a social setting when someone is hurting another.

I know that I have a message to pour out into the Universe to help victims find their voice, and yet, it is actually quite difficult to find my own in group meetings that have turned ugly.

I just learned that social scientists have identified this phenomenon.

It even has a name.

It is called “The Diffusion of Responsibility.”  

These social researchers have described a strong negative correlation between the number of bystanders and the likelihood of someone speaking up.  What this means is that the more people that are present and watching the conflict unfold actually decreases the chance of someone intervening.

This dynamic started to be studied in the 1960’s when a woman was murdered and there were thirty-eight witnesses. No one called the police. No one intervened. Social scientists wanted to find out why.

This social process is very real and very much alive.  Fortunately, there is also a solution!

It seems that if ONE person will speak up, the rest in the group will become supportive. In other words, it takes one person to break the ice, then the rest will follow. Researchers have shown that once someone speaks up, others will too.

Now that you know this social dynamic exists, will you make a decision to be the one?  I am!

Won Without a Word

I didn’t mean to hurt him, yet he was crushed.

Wounded in the spirit.

Unable to speak.

Unwilling to talk through the pain.

Normally, I am the peacemaker. I am the one to apologize—even when I haven’t really done anything wrong. This time I was wracking my memory to recall what I said. I couldn’t figure out how my words could have possibly become weapons of destruction. I still didn’t know.

I was trying to understand. He didn’t want to talk, only accuse.

I prayed for wisdom. I was told it wasn’t my battle, but his.

His last words were, “I think you have said enough.”

I knew differently, but I shoved the conversation I wanted to have back to the innermost recesses of my gut. My prayers would have to suffice.

It was hard to sleep. Unresolved conflict never feels good.

I forced myself to go about my day as usual, avoiding him until I thought he might be able to hear my apology, even though I still didn’t know what it was for.

There he was with a smile. He’d had a breakthrough. He wasn’t mad at me. He wasn’t mad about anything.

Perhaps this is what is meant about the unbelieving being won without a word. I can’t really wrap my head around how problems are solved without talking about them, but then again, I am not the healer of hearts.

 God is.

I Want To Be That Boy

I want to be that boy.  You know the one.

He brought a meager lunch with him. Just a few pieces of dry bread and a bit of protein. He must have heard the grown-ups talking. People were hungry. There were lots and lots of them in the gathering crowd. So many, that they only counted the men.  Five thousand. And that didn’t include him. He was just a boy, after all.

They were all there for the same reason. They wanted to hear with their own ears and see with their own eyes what had been the buzz in the marketplace. People were talking about this man. He was doing things that no one had seen before. People were being healed. People were being comforted. People’s hearts were filled with words that had never been spoken before. They came to hear more. They were hungry. They wanted fed.

This boy must have heard them talking. It was getting late. How will all of these people get food. There were just too many. The man named Phillip said it would take eight months of wages to attempt to feed them, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

The boy probably looked inside the pouch that he had with him. It wasn’t much. Just the cheapest grain made into small loaves. A couple of small fish. Really just enough for his lunch.

I am guessing God was leading this young lad. He showed what he had to Andrew. Maybe he thought that if everyone brought what they had it could stretch and at least help out.

I wonder if that boy knew his giving heart would fill up maybe twenty-thousand people. I wonder how he felt when the miracle took place. Everyone ate. Everyone was filled. And the leftovers filled up twelve baskets. One for each of the men with Him.

I want to be that boy. I want to give what I have, meager as it is. I want to see how He takes what I have and turns it into something so amazing, that people will talk about it for centuries.

Let me be that boy. Let me bring my offerings—small and insignificant as they are.

Let Him use what I have for His mighty plans.

I want to be that boy.

Pursued or Pursue?

            Today I was pondering why I am not feeling the presence of the Lord as fully as I had been just weeks earlier. I’ve done the “right” things with praying in the spirit, searching the scriptures, worshipping privately and with others as well. It is an empty feeling and I really don’t like it.

I like being pursued. I like hearing Him call my name. I am comforted in visible proof that I have been purposely chosen. By Him. For Him.

Then I realized that maybe it was just my turn. I need to pursue my true love. I need to earnestly seek Him. The Message version of Hebrews 11:6 says,

“It's impossible to please God apart from faith. And why? Because anyone who wants to approach God must believe both that he exists and that he cares enough to respond to those who seek him.”

I am long beyond questioning my beliefs about God’s existence, and frankly, I think I have always known that He loves me enough to respond to me when I come looking. Maybe that is why this rather silent season is so strange and difficult to understand. When He is this quiet, I am left wondering what happened.

I am reminded of those days when my children were very young and would not even allow me a moment of privacy to use the restroom. They needed to know I had not left them. Nothing I did would ever have given them the impression that they would ever be abandoned. They were my life, the very core of my existence, and yet a closed bathroom door seemed like an impenetrable ten-foot barbed wire wall to them.  As soon as the door opened, they would go back to their own play. They didn’t really need me. They just needed to know they had round-the-clock access. Just in case.

Is that what happens when we forget to seek God?  I mean earnestly seek Him. It’s not just reading some Bible verses or singing some praise music. I’m talking seeking His face. The staying-in-prayer-until-He-speaks kind of presence.

Psalm 63:1 says, “You, God, are my God, earnestly I seek you; I thirst for you, my whole being longs for you, in a dry and parched land where there is no water.”

I am parched when I don’t feel Him close to me. I need His flowing rivers of water to literally flood my soul again. I will continue to seek Him until my thirst no longer overwhelms me.

I am guessing that won’t happen until Christ returns.

Find Your Voice or Fear?

This week I was in a meeting that turned very ugly. I didn’t speak up or put a stop to the character assassination that was taking place. I have dedicated my life to helping others find their voice to create a culture of kindness and caring, and here I was—unable to find my own.

I have been pondering why that happened.

There were some social dynamics in place that may have played a role. First the verbal abuser was a leader and in charge of the meeting. It has been ingrained in my very essence to be respectful of authority. In this meeting, at least in my mind, the leader had some level of authority over me. Looking back, it seems beyond ludicrous, but that dynamic was present—real or imagined.

Another factor was that the person being criticized was also in the meeting. Not only is this person also a leader, but is the leader over the entire organization. Once again, my indoctrination of social practices overruled my heart. It wasn’t “my place” seemed to take precedent over doing what was right.

I am shocked at this revelation. How can I preach to others to find their voice?  How can I tell others to stand up and speak out to make things right, and then be so stuck in obeying made-up social rules?

It is so easy for me to tell others how to speak up, and yet when the eyes are on me, my strength and resolution to do what is right are overshadowed by meaningless human protocols.

Of course, another factor in this situation was that the criticism was subtle, and sugar-coated in feigned helpfulness. Had this been obvious and outrageous abuse, I know I would not have hesitated. Instead, I was trying to understand this meeting leader’s intentions, expecting them to be good. Wanting them to be good.

It wasn’t until the meeting was almost over that I realized they weren’t.

I don’t want to believe that I operate out of fear, but evidently I still have a ways to go. Learning to find my voice means getting to the heart of what is really going on more quickly. It also means letting go of six decades of ingrained social processes.

No more can we say to ourselves, “it’s not my place.” When someone is hurting another we all have an obligation to speak up. Silence means agreement.  Thankfully, now I am more aware and will do better next time.