Anyway, Wednesday evening has arrived. I am quite quite glad for it. Tomorrow is a sleep in day, because I don't have class until 11:00 a.m.! So I can allow myself a bit more irresponsibility with how late I stay up. And now my stories begin...
A few years ago I went to a Gospel Music Association weekend in Dallas with my dad. Someone mentioned a little piece of wisdom about inspiration that weekend that stuck with me. "It's either a song, or a sermon," Dan Dean of Philips Craig and Dean shared his experience with this idea, as he is a pastor as well as a songwriter. So, for me, it's either a song or a blog. Things float through my head as I listen to people around me. In sermons I take the little nuggets with me and they either find their way into my journals, blogs, or songs. Usually I'm inspired to the point that the inspiration will not rest until it's put to music, or in the least, written about.
And so, this past weekend the choir toured a few churches in Southern IL. It was completely fantastic. I just love singing with the choir. The many rehearsals and long hours in preparation can be less than exciting, and sometimes quite the opposite. But it all makes sense once we're surrounding the congregations singing our benediction song. It can be moving time and time again, even though I've done it several times.
One of the seniors gave a devotional while we were on the bus Sunday afternoon, heading to our next place to sing. He told a story and read from the Bible, and gave little thoughts. In my typical fashion, I heard what struck me, and just started chewing on that. I'm not sure what else he said. But he told a story about a mother walking with her young son, and suddenly, her little boy was bit by an alligator. They were in an area where there were many, and one came up behind them, and got a hold of her son by the leg. The mother was frantic trying to free her son, and held on to him so tightly that her nails dug deeply into his skin. Luckily there were people around, and they helped him get loosed from the mouth of the stinkin' gator.
Later in the hospital, family and friends came to see the little boy. He recovered well. Once he was healed up and living normally again, someone asked this child if he could see the boy's scars. So the boy held up his arms. "I thought the alligator bit your leg," the inquirer commented. "These are from my mom when she wouldn't let me go." Said the boy.
That struck me hard and good. It astounded me actually. It struck me of course in the obvious sense that it was just so sweet that the first thing he thought of was not the alligator, but of his mother and the way she fought for him. But then, that wasn't exactly the moral of the true story. We have scars too. We have scars from the mouth of the enemy. But we also have scars from the hands of a Father who refuses to let us go.
I find it peculiar that so many feel the need to constantly remind others of the scars they have from the mouth of the enemy. To an extent, I understand. I am no exception. I do it. I remember the scars I possess. I get frustrated when others fail to see them. It's pretty lame. But it's true. When I'm offended by something, be it legitimate or entirely not, I get frustrated that others around me couldn't see to my "enemy scars" easily enough to know not to do or say something that will hurt me. So then I draw attention to the fact of those scars.
A few months ago, I sat at a table with some people I knew on campus. I didn't know them well. I more just saw them around, and knew a few names. I will never forget it. I felt it so urgent to finish my meal to get out of there. It was so depressing. The people just went around back and forth discussing their experiences with depression. It was a pity party to the point that it would make someone feet guilty if he had not experienced such a dark time. I am not one to say to someone, "Quit it, depression is just your mind fooling with you." That is complete and absolute crap, and if I ever heard someone say that, I might kick 'em in the stomach. And then while they were down, I slap 'em the upside of the head. Maybe:) But I know depression hurts. It's a real thing. But even still, sitting at that table was so gloomy. It was all about showing enemy scars. I couldn't wait to leave.
In a Paramore song, one of the lines is, "Why do we like to hurt so much?" What a line... it's uncalled for that we love to feel pain. It's disgusting, and so truthful. We love to show our enemy scars.
My thoughts after hearing Jay's devotion on Sunday kept reeling. I kept trying to make sense of it. I don't even remember what he said after he told the story. It was like God hit me in the head with a softball and caused me to be unconscious to the other things around me, aside from the unforgiving fact that I drank waaaay too much water before getting on the bus while we still had a while yet to travel. Yup. I won't forget that. Painful.
So, what if the boy had responded to everyone in the way they all expected-- showing them the scars from the mouth of the alligator? No one would have been surprised. That's what they were expecting. It's comparable to how we are with the people around us. We show the scars we have. It's to the point where it's expected. We share the things we've "been through." I'm not saying that's bad. It's precious to be able to share the things that are deep inside of us. It's relationship. Relating to others. Relating in a bonding way. It's great. But what if we were to constantly show the scars from the hands that wouldn't and won't let us go just as often, if not more than the scars of the mouth that tries to constantly swallow us up? What if we were to act upon the scars that gave us life, just like the scars of the little boy that saved him from even more serious injury, and depending on the seriousness of the situation, possibly death? What if we lived astoundingly shocking lives that surprise everyone around us by declaring the saving scars rather than the deadly ones?
The scars of the enemy are part of the story. They cannot be left out. It'd be a pretty bad story if the boy's mom just simply grabbed onto him so tightly that she left scars from her finger fangs if there was no reason to actually do so. People might say she's abusive. I'd try to stay clear of her. The fact of what she was saving her son from is the issue. Our scars from the enemy are important too. But they are not the ones that give life. They aren't the ones to boast about.
So these thoughts may be kind of jumbled and some what incomplete... it's just something I've been pondering.
So! I suppose that is all for now. Hopefully my computer will be home safe and sound so I can use it whenever I feel like it and not beg Katie to use hers. Thanks Katie:) Fare well all!
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