Okay, so I'm a little grumpy tonight. And it's all because of a phisher. . . and a fish.
See, today we became victims of identity theft.
Yep. Some bold, phishing soul in New Jersey decided that my dear husband and I were rich, and that he or she was going to appropriate those untold riches. Checks for eighteen thousand and sixty five thousand dollars, drafted on our hacked account. Fraud investigation. Affidavits. Frozen assests.
It's enough to make a bright Saturday in October downright chilly.
But I'm not sure what bothers me more. Our phisher friend in New Jersey, or the fish-covered, Christian bumpersticker-plastered car, whose driver cut us off on the freeway.
I know. I know. Blessed are the peacemakers. But I'm starting to feel downright indignant about these fish-encrusted cars. I mean, what's with the fish, anyway?
To those theologically inclined souls who fear for my intellect after reading my question, let me assure you. I do know what the fish means.
Icthus, which is the Greek word for Fish, and in Greek looks sort of like IXOYE, forms an acrostic that stands for Jesus Christ God's Son Savior. I'm all clear on that.
What I'm not so clear on, is why drivers who've marked their cars and themselves as Heaven-oriented, are so determined to screech down the freeways like bats out of Hell.
GASP! She said the "h" word! She must really be having a bad day!
No, not really. Just a grumpy, thoughtful day.
Years ago, I met someone who was Jewish. They hastened to clarify for me that they were Jewish in nationality, not Jewish in religion.
After my recent encounter with batman on the freeway, I remembered that Jewish person's comment. And I wondered. How many people with fish car decals and Christian bumperstickers are Christians by nationality, but not by religion? How many who call themselves Christian, do so not because their hearts are devoted unflinchingly to the Lordship of Christ, but because it's their culture?
We've all heard about "Christianese". That cryptic, honeyed language known only to the truly sanctified. And yes, I confess, I can speak it fluently if necessary.
But I don't like it. Not one bit. Not the "Bless you, brother" or the "Just trust the Lord, sister" or even the "Thus saith the Lord" Shudder. Ugh. Not at all.
Why? Because it is the language of North American Evangelical culture, not the language of my faith.
Someone I knew years ago once said, "All of culture is not Kingdom". Meaning, there are glimmers of God in every cuture, but some cultural things are contrary to the heart of God.
Like the way the Maya tore out people's hearts in worship ceremonies.
Like the way the Crusaders pillaged and raped in the name of Christ.
Like the way Christians cut each other off on freeways.
Yes, the comparison is a little extreme. But my point is not. There are cultural Christians, and then there are heart Christians.
What concerns me, is that like our batman friend, there are probably areas in my life where I'm cruising along, being cultural instead of being faithful.
Oh Lord.
Places where I'm on Christianese auto-pilot, cutting off those who are in need. Zipping past the downtrodden. Putting myself ahead of those who move slower than I'd like.
Oh Lord, Oh Lord.
Thus the "thoughtful" in my "grumpy, thoughtful day".
The phisher who tried to steal way more than every cent we own isn't too hard to forgive. After all, he is, as someone would say in Christianese, "a heathen".
The driver with the fish decal? A little more annoying. A little more challenging. A little more...like me.
So tonight, my prayer is this: God, save me. From phishers, fish decals, Christianese, and auto-pilot.
There's a Psalm, Psalm 15 to be exact, that begins this way... "Oh Lord, who shall sojourn in thy tent? Who shall dwell on thy holy hill?"
What follows in this Psalm, is a list of those who are worthy to, for lack of a better term, hang with the Most High. Problem is, I've tripped and fallen flat over one of the tent pegs in this little poetic discourse.
What? You see no peg? Well I do. I can see it right now. Sticking boldly out of that list of qualifiers like a stubborn iron rod. Determined to beat me up and make me crazy:)
It's found in the latter half of verse 4. It says, "Who honors those who fear the LORD; Who swears to his own hurt and does not change;"
Let the bruises begin.
See, that last part, "swears to his own hurt and does not change" can be translated as: "Who gives his word and realizes later that he's gotten himself into one whopper of an uncomfortable situation, but doesn't flake out and keeps his promise in spite of the agony."
Groan. Yes, that's me. Raising both hands. In fact, if I wasn't so sore from tripping over that peg in the first place, I'd raise both feet too. But then, things sound good when you're a dreamer...
"Oh yes, we'll scrape down and re-paint the walls of our entire house all at the same time. My fibromyalgia? No problem! What? Holes in all the walls and a layer of dust two inches thick over everything including our teeth? Heh. I was a missionary in Africa, after all. How bad could a little renovation be? Lead paint and legion layers of wallpaper? Oh, that stuff will peel right off. Not to worry."
"Pardon me? You'd like me to teach three classes full of squirrely, insolent, ungrateful, pre-pubescent boys each week? Piece of cake. What's that? You want me to teach subjects I've never taught before? WELL. I've got to excercise all this brilliance once in awhile, don't I? I'll have curriculum for all seventeen weeks whipped up right away. Outlines for those weeks by tomorrow? Consider it done."
And so in I jumped. The visionary dreamer. A dazzling picture of competence.
NOT.
We're now into our third week of Total Chaos on the home front. A bit longer than that for the classes I doomed myself into. And I am pretty sure if I went to a psychologist tomorrow, I would emerge from the appointment in a straight jacket. Me. The committed visionary. I'm ready to chew sheet rock with my bare teeth.
Oh wait... I've already done that.
So what's my point? Well, I guess it has to do with pain, and change, and growth.
As I scrape walls until my knuckles won't bend, something is happening. As I pull insulation out of the food in my frying pan, something is happening. As I take a deep breath and go back to face kids who alternately wound an infuriate me, something is happening. And as I spend hours and hours on lesson plans when my heart is screaming "Quit your day job!", something is happening.
That something is transformation. Transformation of my surroundings, and transformation of me.
I'm learning to be the kind of person who can sojourn in God's tent. Someone who keeps her promises. Not just the easy ones, but the ones that grate against everything in me. Someone who has paid the price to become faithful. Reliable. A person of my word.
Do I hate it? Yes. I do. I've tried very hard to think up some rescue for myself. Some way out. But there is no out. There is only through. And that's where I must go.
The other day, I was reading through an book full of songs I wrote years ago. I came across this stanza and thought it was appropriate:
You've hit the wall, there's no way around it,
The only way is through,
And it'll be tough, but just hang on,
You'll find Jesus right there to carry you,
And when you get to the other side,
You'll look back and then you'll find,
That the wall you once tried to hard to climb, Is now an open door."
For now, the only open doors in my life have curls of paint or insolent boys hanging around them. But I keep reminding myself that's just now. This is a season. It WILL pass. And I figure the price is worth it if God can change me and I can please Him in the process.
Oh for the day I can sojourn in His tent!
Until then, I'll keep scraping and sojourning in mine.
It's a short little phrase that calls to mind things like bloody video games. Or heavy metal love songs.
But today, and probably for many days to come, total chaos is not a game or a song. It is the nightmare spectre looming over my life.
As I type this message, I am surrounded on all sides by dirt, dust, and fragments of old, (very old) wallpaper.
Furniture is piled in tower-of-pisa-style, here, there, and over there, too. The half-denuded wall to my right is a leprous amalgam of pink paint, limey-turquoise wallpaper, and brown splotches of glue dating back to the dark ages.
I'm wheezing air that's rife with the odors of decaying wood, chemicals, and yes, more dust.
One of my fingers sports a nail broken half-way down into the quick. Not bleeding, but should be.
Oh the joy and beauty of it all. So why all the chaos and (I'll admit it) misery? Because the Insulators are coming tomorrow.
Our house has exactly zero insulation. This makes for interesting indoor clothing choices in the icy embrace of winter. And it has been really rough on my health.
So, in order to keep us as tenants, our landlady, who is an amazing, wonderful woman, is paying to have the entire house insulated.
This is good, because:
(A.) We won't have to wear our ski masks indoors anymore, and
(B.) We can use the money we would have spent on our heating bill to buy an entire island in the tropics.
But not ALL is well in the land of milk and honey please get me an aspirin.
The insulators will be drilling holes in almost every wall in our house so they can blow insulation in between the thingy's and the other thingy's. (Note to men who know technical terms: Please replace 'thingy's' with the appropriate descriptor when reading)
For the non-technical, this translates as: Your house will be thrashed... but warm.
Since our walls will be thrashed, we decided they should really be re-painted. Our landlady agreed, allowed us to choose the paint colors, and then provided the money for it.
Couldn't be better, right? WRONG.
Sometimes you wander into Godzilla's mouth and don't smell his bad breath until it's too late. This is my deep thought after scraping--no--attempting to scrape--seven layers of wallpaper and five layers of wallpaper border off our ridiculous walls.
And may I just elaborate on the smell of wallpaper when you're trying to steam it off? Dirty socks on a heater vent, rotten sesame oil, and a 500 lb. pig farmer who hasn't brushed his teeth since 1962. Mix those together and you come close to the same lovely eau de toilette. It should be patented as a chemical warfare agent. For real.
So that brings me to today. We have one day left before the Insulators arrive. One day to pull down the rest of our oh-so-retro wood paneling. One day to scrape off the multiple layers of psychotic wallpaper that lurk beneath that wood paneling. One day to get rid of the remaining gray-as-a-dead-whale ceiling board tile. One day to finish four more rooms.
Am I tired? Yes.
Am I mad as hornet on acid because now I know why all those ditzy blondes on TV cry when they break a nail? Absolutely.
Am I annoyed because navigating to the bathroom at night in my little house of horrors has become a task of epic proportion? You betcha.
But I found this fabulous verse today that I'm enjoying as I scrape, vent, and burst into uncontrolled hysterics. It says: "Let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God."
What a cool thought, huh? There is a lot of darkness in this world. Many situations and trials far more difficult to navigate than the hallway to my bathroom.
So I'm thanking God today that He knows we'll have those times. Times when there's darkness...and chaos. And if we'll trust in Him, and rely on Him during those times, we'll make it through.
"For with You is the fountain of life; In Your light we see light." Psalm 36:9
Welcome to the deep thoughts of Kelli Standish- frequent adventurer, occasional poet, constant pilgrim.
About Me:
Name: Kelli Standish Home: Corpus Christi, Texas, United States About Me: Insatiable: reader,
Hopeless: visionary,
Idealist: still,
Irresistible: the color green, script fonts, French soap, tea, travel, languages, Rich Mullins music.
Joy: sand between toes, cats, Moroccan decor, Greek, African, East Indian, Hawaiian, and Mexican food. See my complete profile
"Where is God? Go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double-bolting on the inside. After that, silence." ~CS Lewis~
