What Killing Honeysuckle has to do with Addiction

It's been a while.  Too long.  But I've been busy.

Busy killing invasive Asian Honeysuckle and pulling garlic mustard (also invasive) in the urban woods around my house.  Busy reconnecting with my roots as a farmer's daughter, figuring out how to make clay soil produce food - clay soil in the middle of the city, I might add.  Busy re-discovering wild plants I learned as a child:  Jack-in-the-pulpits, trillium, morel mushrooms, toothwort, pokeberry, wild grapevines and barren strawberries - just to name a few. Busy learning about the struggle of so many who deal with addiction to substances more potent than anything in nature, more dangerous to the brain, more problematic.  Busy reading Wendell Berry, trying to make home beautiful and comfortable, learning to parent teenagers and sending one off to be independent.
In other words, busy living, which is the best kind of busy, because it's not frantic or empty.  It's just a full life, for which I am eternally grateful.

What if, I find myself wondering, what if it's all connected?  What if it's the LOSS of connection that is what we call sin? Is it the loss of connection to God, to creation (our older sister, if St. Francis is to be believed), to each other in community, to ourselves, that leads to addiction?

Of course, once addicted, our beautifully-designed/evolved/created brains take right over. That felt GOOD.  Do it AGAIN.  And we can, because we live in an abundance we didn't work for and cannot earn if we try.  Perhaps, then, loss of connection also leads to forgetting that we are contingent, that we are not owed a living or life.  Perhaps that is why gratitude as a practice is so important to a real, authentic, with-God life.

Anyway, it's good to be back.  I'll try harder.  For a while.

In Memorian 30 Ethiopian Christians

Today the internet brought news that 30 Ethiopian Christians were murdered in Libya by people I refuse to name because I don't want to give them any power or credibility. Today, I refuse to call it terrorism or an execution. I cannot call it war, though those who perpetrated it do so. It is murder. Today, I'm putting ashes on my head and tearing my clothing for my brothers and sisters who have given their lives for Christ. Today, the Spirit calls me once again to follow the Crucified and Risen One, just as they have done, all the way to the end. Surely the enemy is not so much the murderers - they are no more nor less human than we are, despite their actions. The enemy is the spirit of evil that causes humans to take up the sword against each other, to see others as objects to be manipulated rather than as kindred to be respected. This unclean spirit is neither unique nor limited to those nameless murderers. We have known it, and by we I mean US Americans and Christians. We must not forget how easy it is to hate and to kill the objects of our hatred. Today, I'm wondering if it's possible that we could beat our swords into plowshares, if it's possible for us who have been commanded to love our enemy and pray for our persecutors to actually do what our Christ told us to do. It's hard for us to see them as human. We'd rather shoot them, most of us, if truth be told. I know I would. Put a stop to it. Just shoot them down, bomb them, destroy them. As if they are 'its' and not people. That's only fair, right? I want to riot in the streets, just as they are in Libya. It's a lot easier to pray "O that you would kill the wicked, O God, and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me*" than "Father, forgive them, they don't know what they are doing.**" I know, that's Jesus, not us, but didn't he ask us to follow him? And what does that mean if not "go where I go, do what I do, love who I love?" Tomorrow, we baptize Brandon, a young man who comes of his own volition to join with us at Grace Church. We receive 6 other adults into membership. We must tell them that they are in danger. That following Jesus is the hardest thing they will ever do. They will have to die to their desires to get even, to hate, to refuse forgiveness, to every natural impulse that says the answer to violence is violence. They must learn to see 'family' in people of all nations, ages, races and classes. They will be challenged to love their neighbors and their enemies. They will be called to forgive when they'd rather retaliate. They will be asked to see others as human beings, even when they are not granted the same courtesy. They may even be killed for their refusal to give up this way of grace, mercy and peace in a world of hate, revenge and violence. It goes against so much of our natural inclination to follow Jesus. Frankly, I can't see how it's possible for anyone. Is it possible for God? I would list the names of our Ethiopian Christian brothers and sisters. I can't find them. But their witness is powerful today. May God use their deaths to bring what their lives could not - an end to fratricide, which is, after all, what murder really is. Let those of us who live half a world away offer some act of love, forgiveness, or charity in their memory. *Psalm 139:19 **Luke 23:34

Am I authentic enough?

Maybe it's the people pleaser in me, or maybe I'm just jaded. I've fought, lost and won the 'worship wars.' I've declared that I would fight no more, a promise which I have managed by the grace of God to mostly live up to. I love worship. I'm a church nerd, having spent my teen years creeping around a dark sanctuary feeling for the organ key so I could practice for Sunday in the dark. One person declares that traditional worship will survive. I'm not sure what is meant by traditional worship (whose tradition? how old a tradition?) but I am hopeful that we are ending the reign of experience as a criteria for good worship. However, my dear professor Karen Westerfield Tucker's words echo in my brain (like the sound of silence, only newer): Liturgy means 'the work of the people.' Which people? I'm so confused. My young colleague says, "Whatever else worship is, it has to be your authentic voice," and I don't know what that means, except that experience is still king. I mean really, does that mean that if I don't feel like worshiping on one day, I shouldn't do it because that would be faking it? I have a high respect for faking it, if by that you mean doing what you know is a good idea even if you don't feel like doing it. Oh well. Maybe I'm crazy, but I don't think my experience should be the final criteria for whether worship works or not. Sure, I'm one of 'the people' that the liturgy should be the work of. Because of that, I'm going to bring to the table my love of all kinds of music and appreciation for visual beauty. My 'work' will offer more change than some want, not enough 'new' for others. I'll want to hear the organ cranked up (without the tremolo) and also have a mandolin once in a while. I love beautiful stained glass, but I also like the sun streaming in clear windows, even though it's bad for the video quality. I don't mind the video either. A little Taize, a little Gregorian, a little Gershwin. I like it all, the variety and the blending and the old and the new. Why not have it all? I think that's pretty authentic. I like that sort of work! But I also think that the work of others matters too, so I'll sing the Gaither choruses even though I don't like them particularly. I'll sway to "In the Garden" and put up that that organ tremolo now and then. If the drums are too loud on a praise chorus with questionable theology, I'll just wear ear plugs and tap my feet. I will remind myself that lots of hymns have questionable theology but we still sing them. If someone rambles a little sharing about Aunt Tina's gallbladder during prayer time, I'll cringe and then schedule a time to talk about telling your own story, not someone else's. If the baby cries, I'll smile at his parents that it's ok if he stays, and if they want him to go to the nursery, I'll point out the way. If the children sit through the sermon, I'll be grateful but I don't think it hurts their souls in the least to have a little time away from the sitting still. If the sermon is long or short or not visual enough, I'll live. I'll put up with a lot that doesn't feel like my 'authentic' voice, because worship isn't just my work. It is OUR work. It's the work of the people, not the work of the person. Good worship is worship that creates a community that loves others like Jesus loves them. It can happen in a barn in Appalachia or under a tree in Uganda or in a 1960s modern middle class sanctuary in the Midwest. It can happen with music of any style, and with no music at all. It can happen looking at a piece of paper or a projection screen or an iPad or up at the good blue sky. Worship is what the people who are offering it bring to the table when they gather together in the name of Jesus Christ. Sometimes, when we hit the sweet spot of a majority of people, and there is a critical mass of people doing the work of liturgy, we say 'the Spirit really moved.' Do we say 'Worship today was so authentic?' We won't know for sure if the Spirit showed up until we see people loving like Jesus. Maybe when we see that, we should follow them back to their worship and see what they are doing, like you'd follow bees to their hive to find honey. Whether that is authentic or not, I don't know. Maybe it matters, maybe it doesn't. How could the work of the people be anything but authentic?

Always learning

Experiment to see if people notice this. Please tell us if you do! Fat Tuesday - February 17, 5:30-7:30 pm All Grace, all night Breakfast for dinner Critters from Columbian Park Zoo Painting project Balloon animals MORE All to feast in celebration of God's goodness and prepare us for Lent. Hope you will come join us.

Fat, Husky, Big-Boned Tuesday

Sometimes, the Spirit just hits one out of the park. For us at Grace, it was Fat Tuesday. A week out, I'm looking back and still basking in the glow. Little faces from Grace Day Care and Readiness Preschool lit with smiles and sparking with excitement. Families enjoying a free 'breakfast for dinner' meal. One little guy said, "Those chocolate chip pancakes were the best thing I ever put in my mouth!" Men of Grace (and a few wonderful women of Grace too) doing their servant thing in the kitchen. Grace Church folk wearing Mardi Gras beads. My dear friend John wowing people with Gospel magic. One of our youth in tears because she finally got to see a sloth live and in person thanks to the staff from Columbian Park Zoo. Children's Director Jonathan Thompson and Day Care Director Anne Hough working together to help families create memory stones. Candy English snapping pictures. For me, it was the perfect preparation to Ash Wednesday. We got to see 'how good and pleasant it is when brothers and sisters dwell in unity.' (Psalm 133:1). Then we turn around on Ash Wednesday and acknowledge all the ways we fail to develop that sweet life in ourselves and others. But Tuesday gave us the vision of how it can be. I'm going to hold onto that vision for a long, long time.

Critters

I'm sitting on the patio on a gorgeous late spring day. Trevor the Bearded Dragon basks in the real sun (his heat lamps suffice, but barely). The guinea pigs, Pigeon and Obi Wan, snuggle into the cool grass, eating at will. Kitty the dog roams, causing Trevor to puff out his beard and the pigs to freeze until she ambles over to lie sighing at my feet. I type. Nearby, on the playground, little voices shout "Come and get me," giggling. Trees dance in the breeze, whispering and shushing. Traffic hums along; people have places to go, especially home. Marvelous. Life. I don't deny that it has its cruel side. The insects' lives are short in Trevor's vicinity. Wars rage. Abuse continues. Children go to bed hungry. Unwanted babies come into being. Addicts numb themselves, dealers provide others with desolation. Is it wrong to praise God when so much is lamentable? Is it wrong to glory in beauty when my feet and words and presence might alleviate ugliness somewhere? It's time to cook supper, bring the creatures back inside where they are safe from predators. God, I sing your praise for all you have made. In my song, let me not forget those whose voices are silenced.

People do change. I know a lot of people who don't think so, but Trevor the lizard is proof.

Well, he's really a bearded dragon and he's hanging out on my chest while I type this blog. James has wanted a reptile for a long, long time. I always said no. Lots of reasons: 9-year-old boys' pets usually become Mom's pet, lizards are ugly and not cuddly, lizards eat live bugs, I am just not a lizard person, etc.

Well, the first one is probably going to be true, and he does eat live bugs. The other opinions I held turned out to be different. So I have revised my statement. Now, I might be a lizard person.

Trevor is fascinating to watch, and he is cute in his scaly, dragon-ish way. He loves to cuddle, if by cuddle you mean he hangs around on your warm skin. He chomps crickets and kale with great relish.

John Wesley talked in one of his sermons about 'invincable ignorance.' As he builds a logical argument to the 'if your heart is as my heart, give me your hand' quote, he says: “Perhaps some cannot know. For who can tell how far invincible ignorance may extend? Or (what comes to the same thing) invincible prejudice; which is often so fixed in tender minds that it is afterwards impossible to tear up what has taken so deep a root.”

There are undoubtedly some things that can't be changed about ourselves. I'll stop at saying people can't change, though. They can, and do, all the time.

Whenever I'm tempted to label people as this or that, I'm going to remember Trevor and maybe, just maybe, I'll be a little more open to who people are instead of who I always thought they were.

All in the Family

Maia is into watching reruns of Archie and Edith, Meathead and Gloria. It makes me laugh to watch it again. I was about her age when it was on the first time. I couldn't believe some of what Archie said.

Now I see truth in there, behind the rough exterior and the bigotry. I see his heart. Meanwhile, I've learned to question some of the things that Mike says. And Edith, of all of them, she is like the Christ figure in the TV show. She is love, always, for everyone. And she just gets put down, picked on, 'stifled.'

It's great to have this to share with my smart, witty daughter!

It's All Spiritual

We are getting settled in our new home in Lafayette, starting the process of meeting our 'people' and the community. What's been weird is that the 1st floor of our new house is laid out very like our old one. On the one hand, that has helped us feel at home rather quickly.

On the other hand, I keep going to the 'old' locations for things like light switches and plates. I laugh at myself about 10 times a day as I reach for a switch or item that is not in the same spot in this house as it was in Elkhart.

One thing I am holding on to (besides God and friends) is that change forces my brain to make new cells! Plus, we now live in the woods. All that oxygen being generated by the trees ought to make me alert and on top of things.

It's not been without struggle, I admit. I do miss my Trinity family and the co-workers I've shared life with. Yet being where God calls you is an amazing place to be. I highly recommend it, even if it does disorient us for a while.

Lloyd

My friend and coworker. Lloyd, is sick. Not just kind of sick. Really sick. In the hospital in Indy sick. Scared everybody sick.

Someone asked me today if he is out of the woods. I wanted to say yes.

I didn't think I could. I think we are all 'in the woods.'. This week some crazy guy got all worked up and convinced a few people that the Rapture was going to happen on Saturday. A lot of people joked about it ithe circles I inhabit. A few kids got anxious.

Saturday came and went, and we are still here. Well, most of us are. Some people did die that day, and others on Sunday, more tomorrow. We each have our own personal Raptures. None of us is out of the woods.

That is what makes Christ's death and resurrectdion such good news, isn't it? We are going to go through it, and we will be fine. Death is not the end of the world, it is not even the end of our lives. We can trust this. The more we spend time with God, the morer the Spirit is able to reassure us. The more assured we are, the less we fear. The less we fear, the freer we are to love and risk and try.

Lloyd is improving daily, and I am glad. His life is stronger than the illness.

And when the woods beckons, when our bodies can't quite make it anymore, God is still good. Love never ends.

100 Years from Now

As a youth, my mom, font of wisdom that she is, always used to tell me: "100 years from now, no one will know the difference." It was usually when I was upset about something, or hadn't been able to meet someone's expectations. Since then, Mom's voice has echoed in my thoughts many times. What will this current situation mean 100 years from now?

Last week, a friend and I argued. I rarely lose my temper outside my family (that's a whole other subject), but in our conversation I could hear my voice raise in pitch. Neither of us said particularly hurtful words. We simply drove each other crazy, pushed one too many buttons. We ended with apologies, hopes for future, but our voices were still tight with anger. My stomach in knots, I simply went home.

On Sunday evening, we met accidentally at church. Maybe accidentally; it turned out to be a gift. We looked at each other, she hugged me. We didn't solve any problems, but we acknowledged we're on the same team. Reconciliation. Peace.

100 years from now, the conflict will be forgotten. We'll both be alive and well in the world to come. Jesus told us that whatever we bind, will be bound in the world to come, and whatever we loose will be loosed.

I'm going for loose. An eternity of loose sounds pretty good to me.

Moving Thoughts

Why do I hang on to all this stuff? This is my constant question as I pack boxes to move.

Memory. If I throw away the geegaw that James made in Kindergarten, will he think I don't love him? Will I forget the feeling of his little arm around my neck as we looked at his treasure together?

Frugality. If I need it again, I'll have to go buy it. Better to keep it and save money.

Confusion. I don't know what to do with this, but it's easier to pack it than to decide.

Truth is, though, all this stuff weighs me down. Do I want to feel light and free more than I want to hold on to memories? Is it really more frugal to keep things? How do I break through the confusion?

Moving is an evaluation. Not a bad thing, but sometimes not an easy thing.

Persistence (or insanity)

I put my garage door up early each morning as I go out to get the paper and give Kitty a little outdoor time. It remains open until I leave for work or to take James to school - maybe 30 minutes.

That's the way it was last week. I hustled James out to the car when a bird flew out of our garage. Following her flight path, I saw that she had built a nest. On the garage door opener motor above my car.

Perfectly sensible place for a nest, if you're a bird. Outside, it poured rain. The garage was nice and dry, protected from the wind. The location of the nest was isolated - no predator could climb to that box suspended from the ceiling. It was probably even a little warm from the light that glowed beneath it. I decided to leave the door up while I drove James to school.

Arriving home 10 minutes later, she had added significantly to her home. Long shreds of what was once blue and white rope hung down, brushing the top of my car. She flew out as I pulled in.

Randy investigated a bit later. No eggs, so the nest came down. He generously put it in the tree by the garage, in case she came looking. Problem solved, if you're a human.

But that bird would have none of it. Three days later, I again left the door up as I got the morning paper and ate breakfast. Once again, by the time I left for work, she had constructed a bit of a sloppy nest with long strings hanging down, pillaging the old nest in the tree for materials. She flew out, I closed the door.

Hours later, when I opened the door, in she streaked to the nest.

Randy removed it all once again this morning. Time will tell if she gives up or he does.

I marveled at her persistence. Door open, door closed, she waited somewhere nearby to get in and continue what she had begun. Her entire morning's work brushed away by a guy on a ladder didn't even deter her. I prayed that I might have that kind of dogged determination to work for good.

Then I smiled. Maybe it's not so much persistence as inexperience. Maybe she was one of those baby birds who fell out of the nest and landed on her head. After all, sometimes it's not a good thing to keep doing the same thing over and over, especially when the door keeps shutting in your face.

Maybe it's better if we learn from our failed efforts and try something new.

That was my philosophizing thought. The reality is, new is a little frightening and sometimes I'd rather repeat and repeat and repeat those things that get me nowhere rather than try something else. Insanity, someone said, is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

Persistence? That's a good thing. Insanity, not so much.

Wonder which lesson I need from the bird?

What I do know is that while Randy is quick to sweep the nest away, I'm secretly rooting for her to succeed.

Now, do I leave the door up a little longer tomorrow?

Summer again

Wasn't it only yesterday it was summer? Wow, the last year passed in a blur. Summer came again suddenly, early, hot. Overnight, it seems, everyone was back in their yards working up a sweat. We closed our windows to the weather again, succumbing to the temptation of humidity-free air.

It's bittersweet for me. Last summer I was lighter, physically. Clothes I liked fit well. Last summer, I biked to the ballpark and felt confident in front of people. Thanks to a lethargic winter, I've gained part of the weight back that I was so proud to lose. Not all, but enough to be unhappy with myself.

That's not the real loss, though. If I'm not careful, I can see I will lose this summer in looking back at the last one.

It's a humbling lesson, just when I thought (proudly) I had made such strides in humility. Back to the beginning, to learn the same lessons, the lessons of taking up the cross, of admitting I've failed, of baby steps and turning my thoughts toward Jesus. Of laughing at myself and carrying on, trusting that this, this, this is the day that the Lord has made.

Blue Hair

I have blue hair, thanks to a challenge to the kids and youth of our church. We said, 'Raise $600 for camp and Pastor Lore will dye her hair a crazy color.' They raised over $1000. What else could I do?

With deep thanks to Craig, my hair stylist and fellow Christ-follower, who donated time and hair dye to the cause, I can only describe what happened after the goo was rinsed out. It came out sort of black with bright blue and purple highlights. Definitely not the most attractive look. To me, I look like an Osborne. Or a goth with brown roots. My son said, "Mommy, don't come to my class and volunteer this week."

I wonder if other people look at me differently. Do they think I'm wilder, crazier, or just a sad middle-aged woman trying to recapture her youth?

On a walk with the dog, coming through an opening in the trees onto the busy road, it occurred to me that I might be a little more threatening. Would someone call the cops on me for trespassing? I didn't worry about it at all when my hair was brown.

At the restaurant on Mothers' Day, the young hostess complimented me sincerely. But the father of my son's friend looked at me oddly when he stopped to help me with a flat tire. Another friend asked, 'Did you lose a bet?' and took my picture with her cell phone.

Funny. All I did was dye my hair blue. I'm the same person, right? It's only hair, right? It doesn't reflect what's inside, right?

So why the sudden urge to go buy a motorcycle and sing 'Born to Be Wild' at the top of my lungs?

Some things mystify me, even about myself.

A Message from God?

My mom used to singsong a rhyme to us whenever there was a rainbow.
"Rainbow in the morning, sailors take warning.
Rainbow at night, sailors delight."

I know now that my farmer family probably got the rhyme wrong. It had more to do with red skies. It's the rainbow rhyme that stuck, though, because it was my mom who taught it to me.

We saw lots of afternoon rainbows growing up, the result of breaks in afternoon thunderstorms so common in our part of the world. Never, not one time, did I see a rainbow in the morning. They were always in the east, always after lunch, always after a storm. Once I learned the science behind it, the possibility of a morning rainbow seemed slim. Red skies before breakfast, sure. Rainbows, hardly.

This morning, there was a rainbow. 6:55 a.m. High in the western sky, almost overhead, a bright and clear arc of color glowed against the steel-gray clouds. My ancestors would have tried to read meaning into it. It is a portent, an omen, a thing to make warning rhymes about. We moderns are less personal about such things. It was merely a break in morning storms, the pale eastern sun beaming enough light through thin clouds to create the phenomenon.

I'd rather have an ancient mind today. It is my daughter's Confirmation Day. She will make her public profession of faith in Jesus, receive the oil on her forehead, be sealed for the kingdom of good and light. Did God send it just for her, so on this morning of mornings she would wake to a reminder of his promise? I want that personal message, that bright and glorious word to be for her, for us.

I am not ancient-minded, though. If we interpret the rainbow as a blessing, would we have to interpret the rain as a bad sign? In parts of Africa, rain on the day of an event is looked on as a sign of God's blessing, but not here. I am not likely to attribute disasters in Creation to God's wrath. Why would I see a personal message in a rainbow?

We can look for curses or blessings in the created order. People do it all the time. We can attribute to God things like earthquakes and floods, equally to him the lovely signs like rainbows and sunny skies. Or we can know that earth itself is a gift, and it is full of opportunities to connect with the Creator, if we are paying attention.

For today, at least, a rainbow blessed our morning. I believe it is a sign that behind all things, there is Someone who loves beauty and surprises and a girl who is being confirmed and her friends and their parents. Perhaps the real miracle is that I noticed, in the early morning at the beginning of a busy day. I wonder what else I've been missing by not paying attention?

It was just yesterday. We handed our daughter, Maia, to my mentor and pastor for baptism. Inside, I was quaking with fear. Old images of God came pouring back, images of a harsh and demanding judge, someone who might harm my little one. I let go, and as I watched my friend gently trickle the water on her little brown head, I allowed the new images of God to rise to the surface. This God was the God I chose to worship, the God who was a kind Father, the God who was my companion, the God who revealed himself in Jesus. His strong love enveloped us all that morning, and the fear disappeared.

It was just yesterday. This weekend, that brown-eyed girl will kneel and let another mentor pastor of mine lay his hand on her head, confirming her and sealing the baptism God gave her almost 13 years ago. She makes her own decision this time. It's' her life and her faith. It's not up to me to let her go; she's walking into his arms of her own free will.

I know she will wrestle with her own understanding of who God is. She will have to learn to let the real, good God be her guide. She will have her own crosses to bear. I'm thankful, though, to be here to see what our kind Father has done with that little bundle of joy.

Blessed Birds

"Why are you up so early, baby, it's Spring Break!?"
"The birds woke me up, Mommy."
"They woke me up too!"

The birds are downright loud around our house. I don't know all their names, but I do know the male cardinals, the sparrows, the finches, the killdeer and redwings. Their songs echo in the woods every morning, rousing me from sleep better than any alarm. It's not a symphony, it's a cacophony, like the tuning before the music begins.

How can I complain? After winter's gray, muffling blanket silenced them or sent them away, how can I be upset that the birds are singing as loud as they can possibly sing? So they wake me up? Why would I want to sleep through spring?

True blessings seem to be those that wake me up a little. The peace they bring is beyond understanding, because it is peace that pushes and entices me into a new place. It's not the peace of complacency, it is the peace of growing things.

It's already there

Recently, I purchased an album for my iPod. A fairly large collection of music, I had been waiting for quite some time to buy it, so I was excited about getting it downloaded.

The next day, I was driving and decided it was a prime time to listen. The music was not there! Nothing, nada, zip.

Returning home, I emailed the Apple people and got a very kind reply. The instructions were simple: all I had to do was click a few times in the right places, and there was my music, just waiting for me. It had been there all the time.

And that is the way it is with me and God, all too often. Everything I need is already there. I wonder why I don't have what I need, when what's really going on is he has to wait for me to be ready, to step out in trust, to surrender.

It's already there. What is preventing me from receiving what God has for me today?

Mercy, Mercy, Mercy

This week, there has been a significant amount of heartbreak in the larger circle of people where I live. I can't go into details without breaking confidentiality, but some of the heartbreak requires me to be a little bit 'harder-edged' than I am by nature. I watch people I care about fall apart, or lose what they had, or hurt someone, and my own heart yearns for things to be made right. "Fix it, God!" I want to yell. Isn't it justice I yearn for?

Maybe. In dealing with the difficulties, I discovered something hard to swallow. When I am trying hardest to be merciful, sometimes it is experienced as unfair or mean. I offer kindness, and it is received as judgment. I try to help, and it is interpreted in the most negative way. If a wrong throws the scales of justice off balance, then justice is to set them right. But sometimes mercy accomplishes the same balance, the same renewal and restoration.

What if justice and mercy are really the same thing experienced from two different points-of-view? The gavel bangs down and passes sentence on a criminal, and his life is shattered. Maybe it's a mercy to the people who might have been his victims. Perhaps it's even a mercy that he is not free to continue the life he was leading. When someone decides to bear with me instead of holding every mistake against me, that's certainly mercy. But isn't it justice too? If I show mercy, I'm still acknowledging a wrong, trying to re-set the balance that was lost when the wrong was done.

Sometimes when God seems harshest, or hardest-of-hearing - is that mercy but I just can't see it? Is he always offering mercy, even when the judgment seems unfair to me? Like my friend, who receives a merciful offer of healing thinks she is being judged, do I interpret what God sends as harsh judgment, when he is really trying to make me whole?

I do wonder. I believe the world would be better off with more mercy. If the cruel would show more mercy, justice would be done. If the unkind would show more mercy, their victims would be set free. If the perfectionists would show more mercy, they would find their own lives closer to perfection. Balance is restored in either case, isn't it?

I want to think about this some more. In the meantime, I want to be known as merciful, long to live out Micah 6:8. Something to work on, pray for.