Lorrie Spinney

Category: The Dance (Life)

  • Not okay

    Forgiveness.

    It can feel like another blow, the demand to forgive. Like I’ve been wounded and now I’m supposed to say it’s okay. It’s okay that you did this because I forgive you.

    But it’s not like that.

    When Jesus came helpless and skin-exposed, he never said any of our sin was okay.

    He said He loved us yet. He said He’d take care of the sin, He’d take the bloody consequences of it.

    Forgiveness doesn’t make wrong okay.

    In fact, it’s the opposite.

    Forgiveness leaves the wrong there, all pulsing and ugly, and it says Still, I love you.

    Forgiveness wears the wrong like an ugly gash. It takes the bloody consequences and looks to God.

    Just like Jesus did.

    And God sees.

    God knows whose wrong it is. He doesn’t get mixed up or confused and He certainly doesn’t dismiss it as okay.

    It will never be okay that Jesus suffered, or that we do.

    But when we do it, when we wear the wrong of another and look to God while we bleed, He opens Heaven for us. He helps us bleed it out till it’s gone.

    Just like He did for Jesus.

    And if it feels like he’s abandoned you too, if it feels like this will kill you – let it. Remember what came next: life swooshed in all sparkling new and utterly invincible.

    Maybe that’s the proof of forgiveness – the life of Jesus whooshing in.

    We can’t do it apart from Him. It’s not even possible. Our nature, wired into our bones, is to retaliate somehow, to lash out or withdraw; or give in to despair, decide we deserve it.

    Apart from Jesus we can not forgive.

    But we aren’t apart from Jesus.

    He came helpless, with skin exposed, and wore our wrong like nails right through him.

    He bled it all out till it was gone and so we are forgiven.

    So we can forgive.

  • What Jesus thinks

    What do you think Jesus thinks about you?

    It matters a lot, almost as much as what he actually thinks.

    I tend to think he is always a little bit angry with me, and disappointed – so often disappointed. It’s my default idea about him: he is burdened by the mess of me.

    But what if he isn’t?

    What if he is delighted with me? What if he is able to see all my flaws and shortcomings, all my stupid mistakes and wasted time, and isn’t bothered by any of it?

    What if he knows that I am going to turn out to be wonderful and he can already see it?

    What if he knows that it will take a million mistakes for me to learn what I need to learn; and so each mistake is one off the list, moving me closer to the prize?

    What if, all along, he’s been keeping count of them?

    Because I matter that much to him.

    Because he’s so happy and excited about my progress.

    What a different perspective.

    Doesn’t it change everything?

    And why wouldn’t it be true?

    It’s his nature to love, and love enjoys – love delights in, takes pleasure in – the beloved.

    That’s me. I am the beloved.

    Say it with me: I am the beloved.

    He knows the future, and he knows his own ability to ‘finish what he started’ in me.

    He’s not afraid. He’s not worried. He can’t be: he’s God.

    He’s already dealt with my sin, and accounted for all my mistakes.

    He sees me already transformed, already glorious with his glory, already radiant: beautiful, and doing beautiful things.

    And he’s not just waiting for me to get there.

    He goes with me.

    Each stumbling step.

    ‘Cause he likes me.

     

  • Feelings

    It’s 3:00 on Thursday and time for a blog post.

    My desk looks out glass doors to our back yard which is just now lit green by grey skies and rain. Yellow leaves lay soggy on the grass, also brighter than life.

    In a season of anxiety, I am very glad to be here. I like this old desk, brown lamp shade and those doors. I like the wet deck and our neighbour sauntering across the field behind our yard with his kids running in front of him, skirts flying. I like the thin line of scraggly bush that rims the field and lets me hide here in my lamplight, spying.

    I’m trying to learn how to feel what I feel. Instead of running ahead of fear, I let it come. I breathe it in, hold it, and release: I am scared. Breathe. I am sad. Breathe.

    And then, radical thought: Thank You.

    I am scared. Breathe. Thank you.

    Thank you God, for giving me this life and all – all – my feelings.

    Thank you Melodie Beattie for teaching me to say thank you for them. To say it without forcing myself to feel thankful. To say it as an act of faith. To say it against the feeling.

    Another leaf zig-zags down and lands soft on the grass, a glowing spot of yellow.

    Surrender.