A thought-provoking point by Johnny Ova

The following post by Johnny Ova on Facebook says much of what I was trying to say in my post here yesterday.

I do take some issue with the "... spoke with were the people the Church could not stand. They HATED Jesus because He chose to love and serve them rather than the religious" and "The love of Jesus is so deep, it's offensive to the flesh." We need to be clearer about the actual social, political and religious conditions that Jesus lived in. Amy-Jill Levine (see here and here for starters) is tremendously helpful in this area. It seems to me that "the flesh" yearns for the love of Jesus. An old Old Regular Baptist hymn puts this very well. But I think that the main points being made in Johnny Ova in his post are sound.

Johnny Ova wrote: 

How weak does the Church think love is.

It was because of His love that I was forever changed.

You don't need to change, then meet Jesus
.
You meet Jesus and then change.

I was told to repent and change so many times and it did nothing but make be rebel even more. It wasn't until I experienced Jesus on a personal level, right where I was at...that changed my life and transformed my heart.

You don't earn His love with your choices. You already are loved by a perfect love. And it is in that meeting with perfect love, that all fear is cast away and transformation happens.

The Church is so scared of Jesus washing the feet of a "sinner" because they feel like they haven't "earned" their feet to be washed.

Every person that Jesus hung out with, named Apostles, ate with, spoke with were the people the Church could not stand. They HATED Jesus because He chose to love and serve them rather than the religious.

The love of Jesus is so deep, it's offensive to the flesh. He needs to love who we love and hate who we hate or else it's not "Christian".

A HUGE wake up call is taking place. Not to the non believer, but to the believer. A Revelation of who Jesus is, will be, and who He always was.

Responses to "My problem is that I have said things and done bad things and I have a very difficult time forgiving myself."

 A friend of mine posted the following message on Facebook last night:

In my life, my walk of Faith is difficult and fraught with doubt. I have no trouble with believing that Jesus loves me; He proved that to me 2000 years ago on the Cross at Calvary. He loves us all.
My problem is that I have said things and done bad things and I have a very difficult time forgiving myself.
Does anyone out there relate to me in this situation? I'm a Senior citizen with health issues. In my last years, I want to be useful to God, not running away from Him
I was prayed over by five Christian friends today....
Maybe I just need to trust God's Love and help others...

These are common and real concerns that many people have. How do we know love and do forgiveness? How do we help ourselves and help others along as we struggle with questions of faith and meaning? My starting point here is in the Christian Bible with Philippians 4:4-9, but I am not one for giving people a Bible verse and leaving things there. I asked a few trusted people in my life for their reactions and suggestions. I'm going to post their responses as I get them, but please feel good about posting your reactions as well and please check back to see additional responses. 

One friend wrote:

When Jesus died on the cross he said it was finished... I struggled with that too but one day someone asked me if the God of the universe forgives everything I've ever done wrong then who am I to not forgives myself. I would suggest prayer and read the bible ask God to help and he will praying for ya in Jesus name. Also tell him to think about Paul the man who wrote most of the new testament. He was a persecutor of christians.

Another friend wrote:

Well . . . To me, this falls in the “What is mine?” category. Forgiveness of my sins is not mine to decide. My opportunity is to ask for forgiveness. My responsibility is to learn how to not do it again. Too much time worrying about my future - obscures my seeing and serving others. [Easier said than done] One more: The future is unknown. We can plan. We can guess. We can discuss. We can worry. How much have we spent on the unknown.

And another friend wrote:

Sounds like that cloud of doubt is trying to block him from really knowing God’s love.
God loves us like we love our children, unconditional love. When He looks at us, he doesn’t see our faults and sins, He sees his Son, Jesus, who gave his very life for us.
Love beyond measure is hard to accept.
We only see our sinful selves. But God looks at us with the eyes of a Father. It brings Him joy to forgive us. He wants to smother us with His love.
But we see ourselves as unworthy and miss out on the blessings He willingly gives us.
God is love, that’s not a feeling He has, it’s who He is.
Sometimes we just need to be silent and feel that love He has for us.
We need to stop arguing in our hearts and minds and just be quiet and listen.
We get in our own way.
I’ll pray your friend finds that peace he’s looking for. More important I pray he sees who God really is.

"Today, I painted a picture of my mama, today is the day she died...."

The following comes from BoneWoman Outsider Art. Something is lost here by not having the two images below next to one another, but I think that the text and the juxtaposition of the images carries a well-constructed story of memories, love, loss, and development. I say "well-constructed" because this can be construction site-raw and hit like bricks. There is something blue-collar here and there is something that takes up our own construction of memories and loss and what we do with them. Intended or not, all of this poses questions for me of how to define art and how art carries time and life along.

Today, I painted a picture of my mama, today is the day she died. Lots of tears mixed with paint, I never stop missing her!

1972 - Riding in the front passenger seat in our yellow dodge dart sitting by my mama in her green lime checker polyester dress she made herself a white scarf tied around her head hiding the baldness underneath - chemo colon cancer she is dying rotting on the inside - I am the last born of eight children - 15 - it was a rare moment to ever have my mama to myself - it is cold the heat is blasting in the car it smells old and moldy we arrive to the shopping center - Piggly Wiggly - a sign with a pig wearing a white hat and apron a stripe red & white shirt smiling at us welcoming us to come on in but we do not we walk behind the store where a small record store is located - it is tiny barely five people can fit into the store - my mama had asked me what I wanted for my birthday - my mama had never asked me ever what I wanted for my birthday - I said I want the single of Roberta Flack the first time I have saw your face - we went into the store and there it was a black and red 45 vinyl slipped inside a plain white cover. Next to the single was the 33 - the full album First Take - A bright yellow album cover with Roberta seating on a piano stool her hands posed over the white keys looks like she playing in a smokey bar with her musicians to the side two orange lamps over her head she is wearing a black and white dress with a white scarf that looks like the one my mama has on her bald head. Roberta head is bowed as if she is praying to the piano. I so wanted the whole album but I will not ask because I know we cannot afford it.
We return to the car, it is cold, the wind chills my bones, I am holding on to this little white package for fear the wind will take it from me - we return home I run to my bedroom the one I share with my sister Dea - bunk beds I pull out our little record player from underneath the bed - looks like a red and white small suitcase. I flip the brass clasps - fling open the record player and gently place my 45 on the turntable lifting the needle and carefully carefully placing the needle on the record so as not to scratch this precious early birthday gift. Roberta comes to life her voice in my room all mine for that moment she sings
The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the endless skies, my love
To the dark and the endless skies
And the first time ever I kissed your mouth
I felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command, my love
That was there at my command, my love
And the first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last 'til the end of time my love
And it would last 'til the end of time
The first time ever I saw your face
Your face, your face, your face
Mama is in the room next to mine, I can hear her grunting, pulling off the tight dingy white girdle, slipping out of her green polyester dress, the bra and then I hear the bed springs squeak and she is lying down in her bed.
Soon it will be time for me to go in and change the bandage that covers the oozing wound on her belly, where they removed a tumor the size of a grapefruit. She lays there and we both are listening to Roberta sing “The First time I saw your face" coming from my room. I cannot look at my mama because I know I will cry and we did not cry in front of each other in my house. All tears were hidden. Mama died two months later - January 17th -1973 Roberta Flack won a grammy award two months later 1973 for The First time I ever saw your face.

"I wish the world would pay more attention to children. We could learn a lot from them."

Whether this is a true story or not doesn't matter to me. If this happened, it is a wonderful life lesson and shows something good occurring between people, a solidarity that spans age and experience and position. If it didn't happen, we can still say that someone wants this to happen enough that they thought about it, produced a story and a graphic, and it has become quite popular because others want to believe in love and solidarity. The intention and hope should get as much honor as the deed.

"This morning, during first period, my kids could tell that I was a little off. When they asked why I wasn’t acting normal I explained to them that my wife’s father had passed away this weekend and that I was worried about her. They all said they were sorry and then we got started on our work. While standing at my door giving hugs and high fives at dismissal to 2nd period one little girl put something in my hand. She told me “This is for your wife. I know it was real expensive when my daddy died and I don’t really want ice cream today anyways.” I wish the world would pay more attention to children. We could learn a lot from them."

Credit: Price Lawrence

Other ways to say "I love you"

 

Some things to do, some things to smile on, some things to ponder

"The mountains are my bones, the rivers my veins. The forests are my thoughts 

and the stars are my dreams. The ocean is my heart, its pounding is my pulse.

The songs of the earth write the music of my soul."

"I sing because I'm happy. I sing because I'm free, His eye is on the sparrow

and I know he watches me."

O Night Divine

The following story comes to me from Rod Such. I think that it speaks to the kinds of "ordinary miracles" that run into us once in awhile and transform us. I hope that you have had such an encounter.

A friend writes:

O Night Divine

It’s Christmas, a time when almost all bloggers feel compelled to share a Christmas story. I usually try to avoid orthodox behaviors, but I’ve got Santa looking over my shoulder here, so today I’ll go mainstream.

This story took place three years ago, a few days after Thanksgiving. My brother Bob was getting married at his house on the near north side of Chicago. My family lives in Cary, about 40 miles northwest of the city. To avoid the drive and eradicate global warming, Karina and I decided to take a commuter train downtown, walk five blocks through the Loop, and take the subway to my brother’s neighborhood. We thought it’d be nice for the kids to see the city’s towering Christmas tree on Daley Plaza and take in the window displays at what was then still Marshall Field’s (now it’s Macy’s, a fact few Chicagoans acknowledge).

So we did this, and it was in fact delightful. The tree was as tall and beautiful as we remembered it from our childhood, and the kids squirmed their way through the crowds huddled at Field’s windows, getting their noses up close to the glass. Then we went over to the subway entrance and walked down the long flight of stairs.

As we slowly descended, Karina and I chatted with each other in sign language. Like many late-deafened people, I have to pay close attention to understand signs and I become oblivious to everything else in the surroundings. About halfway down, Karina motioned me to look in the direction we were heading.

There at the bottom of the steps stood a black man, like an apparition, looking directly at us. He wore a frayed brown fedora and a rumpled tweed sports coat several sizes too big, a person obviously down on his luck. He continued to look at us intently as we descended. Then with hesitance he finger spelled the words “Bill…Bill Graham.”

Startled, I cautiously signed “Yes.” Only gradually did I realize that I knew this person. I knew this person finger spelling my name. He smiled and with big signs and voice said “Good to see you.” “Hi,” I signed weakly, trying to place him and remember his name. He saved me by saying “Morris.” He finger spelled it as well.

Morris, I thought to myself….Morris…How do I know him? Then came the dawn of recognition: “Morris!” I shouted. “Morris Haynes!”

Morris had been in my very first sign language class at the Chicago Hearing Society almost 30 years ago. A hearing person, he took the class because he had a deaf cousin.

We shook hands warmly, and I introduced him to my wife and kids. He smiled broadly.

“This is wonderful,” he said, and with a waggle of his index finger signed: “Where are you going?”

I told him about my brother’s wedding, and he again said: “This is wonderful.”

Then he paused a moment in thought.

“I would like to sing your children a song,” he said finally.

I looked at Karina, who nodded. “Okay,” I said.

Morris led us over to a post where a cigar box lay on the platform. He positioned himself next to it and told the kids to stand right in front of him. Then he began to sing. It happened to be one of my favorite Christmas songs, “O Holy Night.”

Morris looked at my kids while he sang, his eyes never leaving their faces, his voice echoing off the tunnel walls. “….The stars are brightly shining…..A thrill of hope….For yonder breaks…..O hear the angels voices!.....O night divine….Led by the light……He knows our need……Behold your king!....”
We could hear the train coming from down the track. In a minute or so we would be on our way.
“O HEAR the angels VOIces! Oh night divine….”

The train roared closer, building to a crescendo. Morris sang louder.

“O NIGHTTT! O HOly NIGHTTT! O NIGHT DIVINNNEEEE!”

As he finished the train rolled into the station, like it was carefully planned.

Morris said to our kids: “Did you like it?” They nodded.

“That was beautiful,” Karina said, signing.

“Thank you,” I signed.

Awkwardly, I took out my wallet. I removed a ten dollar bill and placed it in his box.

“Thank you,” I signed again, and we hugged.

“Have a merry Christmas,” he said to me, and then to my family.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, as I started to walk away. “You take care.”

“Merry Christmas, Bill.”

“I hope to see you again.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Karina and the kids waved me onto the train. I boarded and stood at the door looking out. Morris had moved to another area of the platform. As he positioned his box, our train began to move and quickly gathered speed. Soon we would be at my brother’s wedding.

I turned to Karina and she signed: “He has a really beautiful baritone voice.”

“That was wonderful,” I signed. “Wonderful.”

Morris will probably never know how special his song was. Or that he’s been in my heart on Christmas ever since, his voice resounding in the tunnel as that train approached the station.

Merry Christmas, Morris. Merry Christmas. I hope you’re well.

Blind Love by Sean Dietrich

Warning: This post contains details on animal abuse. It also contains a good deal about human-animal bonding and love. But if you're deeply troubled by animal abuse, this post is not for you.

I lifted this post from the Appalachian Americans Facebook page where it appeared with a byline of Sean Dietrich. The post caught my eye because I do love coonhounds. If you don't know it, there are six recognized breeds of coonhounds. If we put aside the cruelty of coon hunting we still have to reckon with a culture of story-telling, bragging, and beauty that has formed around coonhounds and their owners. It's an exceptionally lively and creative culture and very much a part of rural and working-class life. So steadfast are the relationships between these dogs and their owners that there is even a national coonhound cemetery in Alabama.

Mr. Dietrich takes us into a couple's warm relationship with a coonhound and he does that with a special skill for writing. I do understand what he's saying here. I always had a sense around the hounds that I was looking at long-ago history and deep knowledge working. Hearing them run through the forests at night, chopping and bawling as they went, so touched my heart with something akin to a spiritualty. But these dogs can do many things besides hunt. They can warm a home and melt hearts. They can help you find yourself.

My granddaddy said you can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat a dog. Someone who treats a dog badly, is a bad person. Plain and simple. A person who treats a dog with regard and deference is a good egg.

Right now, my wife is holding our blind coonhound, Marigold. She holds our pet like a baby. Not like a dog.

The Christmas tree in our den is sparkling with twinkly lights. And my wife is stroking Marigold’s head. The same canine head that was smashed in by an abuser.

Marigold’s face was struck with a blunt object. Her optic nerve scarred over. She lost her vision. The doctor removed one eye. This week, Marigold has another ophthalmologist appointment. The doctor is likely going to tell us we need to remove the other eye, too. It doesn’t work, and it’s causing too much pain.

What probably happened, the vet said, is that someone paid a lot of money for this hunting dog, a high-dollar scent hound. But Marigold turned out to be gun shy. Loud sounds wreck her. Her abuser wasn’t happy about shelling out thousands of bucks for a dog who doesn’t like noise.

So he took his frustration out on the animal. He used a hard object. A length of rebar, maybe. Perhaps the butt of a rifle. Maybe a two-by-four.

My wife is softly humming to Marigold. “I love you,” she is quietly singing.

Life with a blind dog is tricky. It’s not like having a regular dog in the house. When we feed Marigold treats, for example, you have to touch her nose and let her know you’re near. Then, Marigold simply opens her mouth wide and hopes like crazy that someone will place the food into her mouth.

“Please feed me,” is what she’s saying. “I don’t know where you are, but I’m opening my mouth to make it easier for you.”

Marigold’s internal schedule is all screwed up, too, because blind dogs can’t sense light or darkness. So they have no idea what time it is. Sometimes Marigold wakes up at 3 a.m. and starts licking my face. And I start cussing and I say, “Please go back to bed.” Whereupon Marigold barks with glee. Because there is nothing half as fun as waking Dad at 3 a.m.

But, oh, how we love this animal. And nobody loves her more than my wife.

We don’t have kids. Once upon a time, we tried to have kids, but the doctor said sometimes couples just can’t have them. As a result, my wife and I have a huge vacuum in our hearts.

Because of this, sometimes we fall deeply in love with other people’s children. And it’s embarrassing because they aren’t our kids, and people look at us funny for being obsessed with someone else’s child.
It seems wrong that people who love kids so much can’t have them. But that’s the way life works.

Our most recent dog, Marigold, has satisfied a deep paternal need within us. My wife and I have never had a deeper bond with an animal. It’s astounding.

Because this blind dog needs us for everything. Marigold can’t do anything by herself.

She needs us for simple tasks like finding her food bowl, or walking down a flight of stairs. We hold her when she has nightmares—which is common for blind animals. We talk to her all the time, so she knows where we are.

It’s been the most rewarding animal relationship I’ve ever had. Hands down. Loving this dog has changed me as a human being.

And whenever I see Marigold crawl onto my wife’s lap; when I see this woman speak softly to this wounded animal; when I see her stroke Marigold’s fur and kiss her broken skull, I feel something profound inside.

Jamie Dietrich cradles our blind dog like a mother. She carries Marigold down staircases. She holds the animal like an infant. Like a mother would.

She kisses the mangled scars where Marigold’s eye used to be.

“Oh, I love you so much,” whispers my wife. She is a woman who is filled with compassion and goodwill. And she has proven to me that my grandfather was absolutely right.

Happy 20th anniversary, Jamie.

Somewhere there is a truck driver who deserves some great thanks...

Soooooo this happened today. Our Bubba (a.k.a. Dakota) loves to watch for semi’s by our home on hwy 26 in Milton. Today he found a present that was thrown over the fence…. ..a new hat, t-shirt & semi truck! All he kept saying was Wow, Wow! He’s in heaven playing with his new truck & wearing his hat.
Thank you! Thank YOU! YOU made his day (and his momma & daddy’s days, too!) Please if you know C H Hall trucking telling them whoever did this is awesome! And everyone else that honks/ beeps for him. Sincerely, Momma Bear

Credit: Peggy Kribs Cadd and Daily Dose Of Kindness

 

Some thoughts from the heart

By Debra Lynn Kimball--A touching drawing 

of saying goodbye.

 

Think about it, smile about it, pray on it, pass it on or leave it on the shelf...

(Some of my friends will get this, some won't.)

 

Made with love by a friend near you

Yesterday I did two posts on how people express love and beauty and turn these into verbs. One post is here and it comes from a woman who lives in Southwest Virginia. She shows a lot of heart and soul and puts lots of good energy into her family. The other one is here and comes from several different sources.

Today's post comes from a friend in Maine who has taken some tough losses lately. Please keep him and those around him in your good thoughts and prayers. Some folks turn to creating things with their grief.

 Let's honor and encourage our instinctive creativity in ourselves and in one another.

When good people do beauty and show love...

"Beauty" and "love" and "creation" are verbs in some people's hands. This is an example of what I'm talking about.

  

So in loving and appreciating our neighbor...

 

Two good random thoughts