Lorrie Spinney

Blog

  • 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.

  • Unfixed Wounds

    Some wounds heal completely. It takes a while, but eventually they are gone: no scars.

    Others don’t.

    Instead, we learn how to live with them. We cover scars with makeup or clothing, or we wear them dismissively. We learn to walk with a limp, or bent, or maybe we go on wheels. But we go.

    And sometimes God does wonderful healings, miraculous healings. And sometimes he doesn’t.

    And I am thinking that all this is true of mental and emotional wounds just as much as of physical ones.

    My dad drank, making life sometimes chaotic and scary.  I learned that the world is not a safe place. He touched me sexually and I learned that I was, in some essential way, bad.

    Fear and guilt: two wounds that happened early and went deep.

    I still have them, and I am over 50 years old. God has not taken them away though I have wanted him to. I would love to not so easily, or often, fall into those feelings. A good Christian shouldn’t.

    But maybe that’s wrong thinking.

    Every time I feel guilt, it is an invitation to wash in forgiveness. Maybe the guilt is earned, or maybe it’s the hurt of the old wound, but so what? I get me to the cross and I stay there a while, letting what Jesus did – be for me.

    And fear, well, it’s the prerequisite for courage. If I feel fear a hundred times a day, then a hundred times a day I get to be brave. That’s a lot of bravery training.

    Guilt teaches me forgiveness and fear teaches me courage, like a mountain in my way teaches me to climb.

    Like God left enemies in Canaan “only to teach warfare” to the Isrealites who needed it (Judges 3:2).

    Maybe God leaves some wounds unfixed so that He can keep giving us fresh grace. Maybe we need to stop resisting and instead climb, letting our need drive us up the next step.

    Over and over and over.

    Since my weakness is the soil in which God’s strength grows, why would he take it away? Does a farmer take the dirt off a field?