Friday, March 31, 2006

God at work


Photo: View of Deception Pass in Whidbey Island

Excerpt from "The Soul tells a Story" by Vinita Hampton Wright:
"This is God at work. It may be divinity at its finest, because the whole point of the incarnation was that we understand finally and with clarity who we really are -- made in God's image and possessing gifts with which to express God's very self to the world."

I am now reading this book "The Soul tells a Story" by Vinita Hampton Wright. It is a book about writing which I bought from a Christian bookstore. I am filled with hope and belief that it would speak God's message to me about writing.

For years and years, I have been wrestling with the spirit of fear and rejection of writing. I remembered when I was around nine years old, I clearly uttered that I would, one day, be a "great" writer. I was so proud, even then, and too spiritually immature to know that my Creator is the Source of everything that I have. Yes, including any gifts that I have ever possessed, still possess, or now have acquired and still acquire. Maybe it does not make sense much; it did not register to me at the time that there is the One and Only Source of all things. My pride arrested me and convinced me that writing is just for my own edification; neither did it have to be published nor read by anyone else. It was just for my own good. I loved myself too much to expose my gift.

And then again I remembered when at around eighteen, I begged my mother to buy me a typewriter. She was already in America, while I was then in the Philippines. Sure enough, one day I got my wish: periwinkle, brand new Brother typewriter. I tapped on that thing almost every night. My neighbors used to joke that I kept them up at night with the noise of my typewriter. My Brother echoed its cries and laughter most nights while I grew up having acknowledged that insomnia was truly a writer's good friend. But because it was just for show and tell, those pages and pages of nonstop writing and collaborating with my own prideful mind ended up either being crumpled or stored and collected dust and yellowed edges. It was an attempt at practically nothing but pure self-proclamation of "great" even when it was more like "wait." I didn't allow too many friends to read them either. Those pages were precious to me. Those pages were just too good for just about anyone outside of my own selected readers to even peek. In fact, those pages were nothing close to being good! They were created by a soul that idolized the shallow crevices of its own mind; a soul that was hungry for love and attention; a soul that deeply cried for grace and mercy; a soul that laughed at truth and embraced lies; a soul that longed for reconciliation with its Maker but, sadly, didn't know the way.

It was a long journey from my memories of those sleepless nights, hearing voices, seeing things, tapping fingers on my periwinkle typewriter. I stopped writing after I had approached a Literature professor and asked her to read my poem. I was in college and she was one of my idol teachers. In her own words, "it was elementary." She never explained how it could be better. I never pursued it any further. I was too crushed and too humbled to even bother. No, it could have well been pride - again - that made me turn my back on writing. I just stopped and did other distracting things that satisfied my time alone with insomnia.

One time I even dabbled on pointilism. It was during those formative, creative years when I drew portraits and some landscapes with colored and charcoal pencils. But this pointilism idea led me to using a sewing needle as my paintbrush on my drawing board. I used red and black and thought it would be an amazing creation. I drew without any forethought as to what I would put down on paper. Pretty much how I did most anything then - without any thought. I let my fingers and hand do the creative move. I finished the "art" and laid down my needle for the first and last time. The picture turned out to be a stick figure of a red man with his hands heavenward, while other stick figures in black floated mid-air. It was a picture of stick figures of one man down on the ground, looking upward and other stick figures hovering up above, then there was the black moon and some red clouds. It didn't occur to me until the next day that it was an eerie art. The following day, I found out that my uncle passed away. Pointilism with a needle quickly became history. And so did much of my art.

Since I am now reading this book about writing that brought me back quite a long way home and years when I didn't know God as my Friend, I now thank Him fully. I thank Him for how I came to know Him, how I am knowing Him more and more each day, and how He has revealed so much of Himself to me. I now know Him and accept that as I seek Him, He will replace - and He already has - those deceiving spirits with that of His Spirit, His Power, His Mercy, His Grace. This newfound power, embedded in my heart, knows that glorifying God in everything is key. It is key to the kind of prospering that God's Hand allows; the kind of prospering that God knows will last; the kind of prospering that is for the eternal kingdom of God. Though I should remember: A key is an opener, so that glorifying God opens doors to God's creative opportunities that unleash the kind of power that prospers our hearts, minds, bodies and souls.

Now I write for the pleasure I see in God's eyes when I do. Now I write for Him and only Him.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Power, Love, Sound Mind


Photo: Sunset along Amalfi Coast

Timothy 1:7 "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind."

A sound mind has self-control, discipline, calm, balance. God gives us the "spirit of power and of love and of a sound mind." Never fear! Through Christ, we can do all things because He strengthens us. His love perfects us. His might carries us through all trials and tribulations. He never fails and His promises are real.

I had created a semblance of a sanctuary for depressed hopefuls. At least that was how I justified much of my down moments. It was not really a foolproof ploy to convince myself that I was not responsible; but the circumstances, the others around me, the weather, the day-to-day stuff just sounded right and felt even more right at the time. I used to lament over that, till I got tired of myself. I opened doors to the adversary of our mind, heart, body and soul. I did not know how to fight then. I was strong in the Lord, or so I thought, but I really wasn't. My walk with God was like the immeasurable, uncontrollable heaving of the tides: I walk when I walk, when I thought I should walk, when I needed to walk, when I had to walk. There was no consistency, nor the urge to be consistent. I went with flow. I was not sowing when I should be a sower. No wonder I was weak when the storms came. No wonder I easily drowned over the bits and pieces of daily agonies. No wonder I had no harvest to show for. Because I had nothing to reap!

What changed then? Knowing who is in control changed that. Knowing His promises changed that. God never gave us a spirit of fear! So why, in our littlest of worries, should we even interact with fear? Fear of not being able to go through? Fear of not being able to get up? Fear of not being like everybody else who are able? It doesn't matter now how that fear looked like. God changed that for me. I embraced His Love and His Promises, for they are real.

basically Yours

Convivially, I should attend to all the comments and e-mails that I get when I tell everyone my most private thoughts and, oh, my weaknesses even. But there is a small chance that a lot of people will bump into my own quiet place.

Simply, I don't advertise it, I don't really share it with just anyone, I don't even tell my immediate family about it. I don't even talk about what I really do on a day-to-day basis, or what, quote-unquote, achievements in the bubble-world out there I snag, or how much I do for this and that which, ideal-worldly, merits accolade and, yes, some kind of vertical trophy or something thicker than a cardboard to stuff into some Office Depot certificate frame.

So what is the purpose of this? At first it was just my way of exercise: a sort-of platform to air out what bogs my head when I think, or when I want to say something to someone close but couldn't because it's not appropos at the time or that it's simply immature to even utter, or when I feel like the flow is within me and I want God to be in the know like I am in the know of what's going on in my head, or just to be in the same page with God, because as we all know we aren't always in the same page with the Almighty. It is my own quiet place to be me - suddenly, internally, vocally, artistically, whimsically, stupidly, spiritually - from all adverbial vantage points thesaurus has already, previously factored as a word.

Besides I just am done with the ex-crap, for lack of a better noun, that came with my in-and-ex-baggage I now refer to as pride. It was the stupidity of pride and the ingenuity of embellished prejudice that prevent one's lowest self to be thrown in the air and left to be picked up by a Power stronger and higher than itself. Holding tight to a configuration of self, or the idea of self, is plain stupid in my spiffed-up notion of wisdom, which happens to be the kind that originated from my Maker.

See, I am nobody special to a lot of human beings, but I am special especially to my Maker. This alone, now, gives me peace. He knows what I am doing at all times. I don't really have to announce to Him what my heart's desires are, because He knows me inside and out. But when I blog here, when I use this platform to cry out to Him, it's as if He is right there, ready with His keyboard, ready to respond and comment, or not respond and comment, ready to understand everything I say, ready to forgive me for the foibles that I say in-between-the-lines, ready to decipher the in-between-the-lines before they even come out of here. He is ready for me at all times. He always says, I'm basically yours, my love.

Many times I ask myself: Why do I bother or not bother? Why is it that I am compelled from the deepest recesses of my heart to talk to Him? I don't even seem to exist for any other reason, but to exist for Him. But there is where I could be wrong: He made me for something and that something is so close to me now, just as far as I could stretch my arm. I could smell the purpose. I could even feel the static that creates a whizzing noise when the thin spark implodes. It is here, my purpose. Tapping on my heart, it is here. I am to do what I am supposed to do.

You know what I say to my Maker? Now I say, I am basically Yours, my Maker! Do with me what You will for me to do.

--June 11, 2008, Year of New Beginnings