I have this bizarre habit that resulted in incessant mocking from my suitemates. Actually, I have many bizarre habits and sometimes even breathing results in mockery.
However, this one happened every time I entered the apartment. It didn't matter if I came from class, the caf, or the coffee shop.
The first thing I would do was put my keys on the hook. We each had hooks by the door with our names on them, hypothetically, so we'd never lose our keys.
Then I'd go in my room, put down my heavy backpack, take off my shoes (and coat), and hit the power button on my computer.
It's what happened next that got me mocked relentlessly.
If someone had started a conversation with me in those first twenty seconds home, I put it on pause until this next step was complete.
I would go into the bathroom and wash my hands.
I knew I did it regularly, but I didn't realize I did it every time I came home until they pointed it out.
The habit is rooted deeply back to elementary school. My sisters and I would get off the bus and almost immediately were ushered into the bathroom to wash off our school germs.
I have no doubt that this healthy though bizarre habit was why chicken pox started going around my kindergarten class in October but I didn't get it until May. I'm sure it helped my six year no-puking record, too.
Just from being taught to wash off my school germs as soon as I got home. And it has become a subconscious habit.
I've got some of the habits Mom and Dad taught us growing up, but I've also got to build my own habits.
I need to be intentional about spending time in God's word. I need to be conscious of my prayer life. I really wish I could say they were habits, but they aren't. They're hard.
The alarm clock says, "Get up! Go! Go! Go!" The lunch break is short; the boss demanding. The course load difficult; the homework plenty. The after school activities are many; the free time is rare. The days is long, the body exhausted.
I've confessed to you all before that some days I grudgingly read my Bible. Yet still God works through it.
Soap doesn't only wash off my school germs when I tell it to. It kills 99.9% of them every time I wash (or so the commercial says).
God doesn't just speak to my heart when I want Him to, when I'm willing to hear what He has to say, or when I have the right attitude. Of course, those things are beneficial, but they're not necessary. Sometimes God still speaks when I'm crabby, tired, distracted, or just don't want to be there.
And that makes it worth building the habit.
<>< Katie
Showing posts with label hand. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hand. Show all posts
Friday, September 23, 2011
Saturday, December 18, 2010
A Carpenter's Hands
You can tell a lot about a person from his or her hands.
When this was first brought to my attention, I immediately thought of my grandfather. I thought about the hours I spent as a child lotioning his rough carpenter hands. I thought about how appalled my child-self was that he let his hands get so chapped and cracked.
I look down at my own hands now and realize my child-self would be appalled. Calloused from holding a pen. Blistered from raking leaves (yes in December). Red and rough from the cold, despite the gloves. I thought about the abuse they receive throughout the day.
Hands vital for communication. Hands that fidget. Hands ready to hold. Ready to perform. Hands that spell "Hi!" with veins. Hands that are washed way too often. Hands that work just as easily in polar fleece gloves as they do independently. These hands hurt. These hands are cold.
These hands don't care. These hands will do their best for God's glory. These hands were made to praise Him. These hands were made to serve Him. These hands may have to work slowly, but these hands will work and He'll get the honor.
As a child, I never wanted to have the hands of my grandfather, the hands of a carpenter. As an adult, I want to be the hands of a carpenter, Christ Jesus.
A carpenter's hands are beat up, bruised, and rough. When I say, "Lord, I want to be Your hands" am I willing to be beat up and bruised? Am I willing to accept that life will be rough? Am I willing to accept the scars?
If you can tell a lot about a person by his or her hands and we are called to be Jesus's hands and feet, what are we saying about Him?
<>< Katie
When this was first brought to my attention, I immediately thought of my grandfather. I thought about the hours I spent as a child lotioning his rough carpenter hands. I thought about how appalled my child-self was that he let his hands get so chapped and cracked.
I look down at my own hands now and realize my child-self would be appalled. Calloused from holding a pen. Blistered from raking leaves (yes in December). Red and rough from the cold, despite the gloves. I thought about the abuse they receive throughout the day.
Hands vital for communication. Hands that fidget. Hands ready to hold. Ready to perform. Hands that spell "Hi!" with veins. Hands that are washed way too often. Hands that work just as easily in polar fleece gloves as they do independently. These hands hurt. These hands are cold.
These hands don't care. These hands will do their best for God's glory. These hands were made to praise Him. These hands were made to serve Him. These hands may have to work slowly, but these hands will work and He'll get the honor.
As a child, I never wanted to have the hands of my grandfather, the hands of a carpenter. As an adult, I want to be the hands of a carpenter, Christ Jesus.
A carpenter's hands are beat up, bruised, and rough. When I say, "Lord, I want to be Your hands" am I willing to be beat up and bruised? Am I willing to accept that life will be rough? Am I willing to accept the scars?
If you can tell a lot about a person by his or her hands and we are called to be Jesus's hands and feet, what are we saying about Him?
<>< Katie
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Interdigiting
"Let a child take you for a week every week." - Max LucadoMy Baptist Church had a (dry) tailgate before my college's Homecoming football game. Amber wanted to take little Abby to the parade. I figured my six year old boyfriend would enjoy it, too.
Several weeks ago it came out that this busy six year old has three girlfriends. I asked if I could be number four. His father applauded him for working the college girls. He was too embarrassed to look at me all day. I think that means yes.
I knew getting him to go to the parade with me was a long shot but it was worth a try. At his father's insistence, he came. The four of us walked (ok, Amber carried Abby) to what we thought was the parade route only to discover we were on the wrong side of the soccer field. Even at their slowest speed my long legs move twice as fast as this six year old's little legs. I didn't want him to get lost in the crowd. I also realized he'd still a bit uncomfortable with me. I kept a close eye on him and my hand at a level where he could grab it if he so desired.
The closer we got to the parade, the closer he got to me. When we stopped, he reached up and took my hand. He then reached up with his other hand and grabbed hold. We watched the parade together, my right hand held captive in both of his.
I was no longer jealous of Amber with the toddler. I had a six year old comfortable enough to grab my hand with both hands. Maybe he was afraid the animals on the floats were going to jump off. Maybe he was afraid I was going to wander off and leave him. Maybe he was lost but he knew I wasn't; I knew where his parents were. All the way back, he held me hand with one hand and stuck so close I had to step around him to move. I didn't mind.
Is that how we should be with God? Our inclination, especially at first, is to wander nearby God. As we walk, we realize He knows where we're going. And we don't. We step closer and closer to Him. We link hands and let Him show us the way. He leads; we follow closely and (sometimes) obediently.
When my "boyfriend" had my hand, my face had a smile. I loved walking hand in hand with him. I wanted to introduce him to everyone we passed, I steered him clear of hot grilles, I returned him safely to his parents. If I can feel that much joy from walking with a six year old who may or may not claim to be my boyfriend (my vote is on not), how much more joy does God feel when we walk with Him? God takes pride in calling us His children. He does not steer us clear of all trials and turbulence but He does walk with us all of the way. With His shield of protect, nothing happens to us without His knowledge. That's more than I could promise my "boyfriend."
<>< Katie
Monday, September 20, 2010
Can't I just pray in peace?
The pastor had finished his sermon with a "Let's pray." I bowed my head and just as he started to pray, someone grabbed my knee. Not going to lie, I jumped a little. I looked up to see Queen Emily beckoning me towards her. She, Amber, and I had to leave church early, and the service was running long than we anticipated. Instead of staying for our arranged exit time, we snuck out during the prayer. A spontaneous change in plan that I was not informed of.
Not an hour later, Queen Emily, Amber, and were in our second church service for the day. We double-dipped on church because our sign choir had been asked to perform at the second service. Neal said, "Let's pray," I bowed my head, and Amber grabbed my knee. No praying allowed in church apparently. Instead, we had to progress on stage like an army preparing for battle.
The performance went better than expected. Not flawless but quite well considering the extremely limited amount of time we had to prepare. After the service, I was mingling and everyone seemed very impressed.
"You were my favorite one up there." You're biased.
"We always love it when you guys perform." Thanks, we love it, too.
It was Jennifer's words that stuck with me the most.
"You know, some people just sign with their hands. But you sign with your whole body. It's like you're telling a story." I like to tell stories.
When I joined this choir, I had no knowledge of American Sign Language. None. During practice, I would feverishly scribble what the signs looked like to me. For example, next to Queen Emily's "WHO" I wrote "inhaler." That's where I got my first sign name, a "K" on the chin, to remind everyone of my silly "WHO = inhaler" moment. When I started, the signs were just motions to me.
Now, almost four years later, I am conversant in ASL. The signs have moved on from being motions to being worship. It means I get to worship with all that I am. My hands, my body, my face, my heart, my mind, and sometimes even my voice. I use all that I am to praise God and tell His story.
It's worth all of those hours freshman year trying and trying to figure out what was going on. Every "WHO = inhaler" moment and the laughter that followed. Every trip to practice in the icy rain. Every sore shoulder/wrist from overuse and abuse. Every moved table and chair to create ample practice space. It's even worth every interrupted prayer to use all of my being to worship God as I tell His story.
<>< Katie
Not an hour later, Queen Emily, Amber, and were in our second church service for the day. We double-dipped on church because our sign choir had been asked to perform at the second service. Neal said, "Let's pray," I bowed my head, and Amber grabbed my knee. No praying allowed in church apparently. Instead, we had to progress on stage like an army preparing for battle.
The performance went better than expected. Not flawless but quite well considering the extremely limited amount of time we had to prepare. After the service, I was mingling and everyone seemed very impressed.
"You were my favorite one up there." You're biased.
"We always love it when you guys perform." Thanks, we love it, too.
It was Jennifer's words that stuck with me the most.
"You know, some people just sign with their hands. But you sign with your whole body. It's like you're telling a story." I like to tell stories.
When I joined this choir, I had no knowledge of American Sign Language. None. During practice, I would feverishly scribble what the signs looked like to me. For example, next to Queen Emily's "WHO" I wrote "inhaler." That's where I got my first sign name, a "K" on the chin, to remind everyone of my silly "WHO = inhaler" moment. When I started, the signs were just motions to me.
Now, almost four years later, I am conversant in ASL. The signs have moved on from being motions to being worship. It means I get to worship with all that I am. My hands, my body, my face, my heart, my mind, and sometimes even my voice. I use all that I am to praise God and tell His story.
It's worth all of those hours freshman year trying and trying to figure out what was going on. Every "WHO = inhaler" moment and the laughter that followed. Every trip to practice in the icy rain. Every sore shoulder/wrist from overuse and abuse. Every moved table and chair to create ample practice space. It's even worth every interrupted prayer to use all of my being to worship God as I tell His story.
<>< Katie
Friday, April 23, 2010
Double the Mistake
There are about a million birthdays in April. Some of them I was able to write birthday blogs for but some of them I had to miss. If you didn't get one, I am incredibly sorry. Please, don't take it personally. :-)
Today's is a birthday I cannot miss. I'm often complemented on how I can see God in all sorts of weird ways and call them "God Moments." I haven't always been able to do that. Through a year's worth of God moments of her own, I was able to copy Natalie's lead and see God in little, weird things. Trust me, if you think some of my God moments are weird, ask Natalie about He spoke through the chemistry principle of microscopic reverse or anything else that relates to sports, science, and the bathroom.
Thus, for her birthday, I'd love to share one of her God moments. The problem is that I need to find a censored one that is appropriate for such a wide reading audience. Not mortifying Natalie isn't quite an option. Hey, she's the one that showed up to small group wearing a bathrobe to demonstrate how Isaiah walked around naked for three years (see Isaiah 20). She's the one that took our small group on Babylonian exile through the icy rain. She's the one that burned two bagels in less than a half an hour. She's the one that broke two fingers playing flag football.
After a few days of pain, Natalie finally decided she should go to the doctor for her two injured fingers. The identical x-rays were hanging side-by-side and, as she tells it, the doctor was looking from one to the other to her to her hands with a confused look on his face.
Doctor: These are two different fingers.
Natalie: Yes, sir.
Doctor: These are two different hands.
Natalie: Yes, sir.
Doctor: Please tell me this was the same play.
Natalie: No, sir.
She'd been playing a co-ed game of flag football here on campus when she reached for the flag of one of her opponents. She got the flag but she also got her right hand tangled in his shorts. Broken right middle finger. She's broken enough bones to realize what she'd done but is way too competitive to remove herself from the game. Besides, if she benched herself her team would have to forfeit. A little while later she reached for her opponent's flag with her left hand and the exact same thing happened again. Broken finger on the left hand. Any sensible person would have learned her lesson and forced her team for forfeit the game. She'd already not just taken one for the team but two. Nope, Natalie kept playing. In fact, she even scored a touchdown with two broken fingers; she said she carried the ball clutched between her forearms and her chest as she waddled towards the end zone.
By Monday at small group time she'd be amused by the identical x-rays and had two splints on her fingers.
Apparently the flesh-colored splints make it look like her fingers were wearing hoodies, so she drew faces on her fingernails. The right-hand one became Jesus and the left-hand one became John the Baptist. Imagine Laura's reaction (her faithful co-leader who frequently reminded her "Be censored, Natalie!"). It went something like, "NATALIE! You cannot flip someone off with Jesus!"
Thus was my small group freshman year, and as is common for Natalie, God spoke through such a bizarre series of events.
She went on to talk about how sometimes she makes the same mistake twice. Sometimes she puts bagels in the oven and forgets about them until they're burned to chars and sometimes she does it again ten minute later. Sometimes she burns two bagels again two weeks later. Sometimes she breaks two fingers in the same football game. Sometimes she had to make the same mistake twice before God gets her attention. Do we do the same thing? Are we so caught up in what we're doing that we forget to pay attention to what we're doing? That we forget to pay attention to God?
Luckily, there is good news for us. Even out of her mistake of breaking fingers, God was still able to do something remarkable when He helped her score. He can still do pretty cool things with our double-mess ups. And frankly, I think that's a darn good thing.
I love you guys. A lot.
<>< Katie
Today's is a birthday I cannot miss. I'm often complemented on how I can see God in all sorts of weird ways and call them "God Moments." I haven't always been able to do that. Through a year's worth of God moments of her own, I was able to copy Natalie's lead and see God in little, weird things. Trust me, if you think some of my God moments are weird, ask Natalie about He spoke through the chemistry principle of microscopic reverse or anything else that relates to sports, science, and the bathroom.
Thus, for her birthday, I'd love to share one of her God moments. The problem is that I need to find a censored one that is appropriate for such a wide reading audience. Not mortifying Natalie isn't quite an option. Hey, she's the one that showed up to small group wearing a bathrobe to demonstrate how Isaiah walked around naked for three years (see Isaiah 20). She's the one that took our small group on Babylonian exile through the icy rain. She's the one that burned two bagels in less than a half an hour. She's the one that broke two fingers playing flag football.
After a few days of pain, Natalie finally decided she should go to the doctor for her two injured fingers. The identical x-rays were hanging side-by-side and, as she tells it, the doctor was looking from one to the other to her to her hands with a confused look on his face.
Doctor: These are two different fingers.
Natalie: Yes, sir.
Doctor: These are two different hands.
Natalie: Yes, sir.
Doctor: Please tell me this was the same play.
Natalie: No, sir.
She'd been playing a co-ed game of flag football here on campus when she reached for the flag of one of her opponents. She got the flag but she also got her right hand tangled in his shorts. Broken right middle finger. She's broken enough bones to realize what she'd done but is way too competitive to remove herself from the game. Besides, if she benched herself her team would have to forfeit. A little while later she reached for her opponent's flag with her left hand and the exact same thing happened again. Broken finger on the left hand. Any sensible person would have learned her lesson and forced her team for forfeit the game. She'd already not just taken one for the team but two. Nope, Natalie kept playing. In fact, she even scored a touchdown with two broken fingers; she said she carried the ball clutched between her forearms and her chest as she waddled towards the end zone.
By Monday at small group time she'd be amused by the identical x-rays and had two splints on her fingers.
Apparently the flesh-colored splints make it look like her fingers were wearing hoodies, so she drew faces on her fingernails. The right-hand one became Jesus and the left-hand one became John the Baptist. Imagine Laura's reaction (her faithful co-leader who frequently reminded her "Be censored, Natalie!"). It went something like, "NATALIE! You cannot flip someone off with Jesus!"
Thus was my small group freshman year, and as is common for Natalie, God spoke through such a bizarre series of events.
She went on to talk about how sometimes she makes the same mistake twice. Sometimes she puts bagels in the oven and forgets about them until they're burned to chars and sometimes she does it again ten minute later. Sometimes she burns two bagels again two weeks later. Sometimes she breaks two fingers in the same football game. Sometimes she had to make the same mistake twice before God gets her attention. Do we do the same thing? Are we so caught up in what we're doing that we forget to pay attention to what we're doing? That we forget to pay attention to God?
Luckily, there is good news for us. Even out of her mistake of breaking fingers, God was still able to do something remarkable when He helped her score. He can still do pretty cool things with our double-mess ups. And frankly, I think that's a darn good thing.
I love you guys. A lot.
<>< Katie
Monday, December 28, 2009
Chilling Conversation
I wrote one of these awhile ago and everyone begged me to do another one. Well, they're incredibly difficult to write because they're very personal. This was yesterday morning when I returned to me seat following communion. I bowed my head and was hit in the face.
<>< Katie
<>< Katie
Katie
God
Oh my gosh it's frigid in here! It's Christmastime; why is the air conditioner still on?
Hey, you're the smart one that sat in the same seat twice in one week. Didn't you learn on Christmas Eve?
I feel like I'm sitting in a wind tunnel!
At least you can feel.
Not helping.
I'm serious. Your friend with Lyme disease's body doesn't control temperature correctly. Yours does.
But I'm always cold. I'm already wearing a sweater and long pants. I can't put much more on.
God
Oh my gosh it's frigid in here! It's Christmastime; why is the air conditioner still on?
Hey, you're the smart one that sat in the same seat twice in one week. Didn't you learn on Christmas Eve?
I feel like I'm sitting in a wind tunnel!
At least you can feel.
Not helping.
I'm serious. Your friend with Lyme disease's body doesn't control temperature correctly. Yours does.
But I'm always cold. I'm already wearing a sweater and long pants. I can't put much more on.
You have a coat.
Then it won't do me an good when I go outside. Have You noticed it's 16 degrees outside, Mr. I Control the Weather?
I have noticed.
Did You also notice I don't have any gloves?
You have gloves.
Then it won't do me an good when I go outside. Have You noticed it's 16 degrees outside, Mr. I Control the Weather?
I have noticed.
Did You also notice I don't have any gloves?
You have gloves.
No, I don't! They're at home in the dryer because they were germy. What a day to wash my gloves!
That's My point. You have gloves... a plethora of gloves. A red pair in your peacoat, a blue pair that belong in Wonder Jacket but are in the dryer right now, a purple pair for texting, a black pair for skiing... Katie, you even have a pair of gloves you wear around the house.
But my hands are still chapped and cracked. All of those gloves aren't doing me any good right now!
But you have gloves. Remember the mitten tree in the atrium? Those kids are getting their one and only pair of gloves.
The mitten tree! That's a good idea! Maybe I'll borrow a pair for the day.
I can turn up the AC if you'd like.
No, thanks. Heat would be nice right about now.
Not until you realize what you do have... a working body--
Minus the spontaneous bleeding of my hands.
You have gloves, your choice of jackets, and think about all of the miscellaneous items stored in Wonder Jacket.
That's My point. You have gloves... a plethora of gloves. A red pair in your peacoat, a blue pair that belong in Wonder Jacket but are in the dryer right now, a purple pair for texting, a black pair for skiing... Katie, you even have a pair of gloves you wear around the house.
But my hands are still chapped and cracked. All of those gloves aren't doing me any good right now!
But you have gloves. Remember the mitten tree in the atrium? Those kids are getting their one and only pair of gloves.
The mitten tree! That's a good idea! Maybe I'll borrow a pair for the day.
I can turn up the AC if you'd like.
No, thanks. Heat would be nice right about now.
Not until you realize what you do have... a working body--
Minus the spontaneous bleeding of my hands.
You have gloves, your choice of jackets, and think about all of the miscellaneous items stored in Wonder Jacket.
There aren't any gloves in Wonder Jacket right now, I already looked.
No, they're not home being washed. Not because they were dirty but because you think they're full of germs.
They were!
Do you used the washing machine, which you have.
No, they're not home being washed. Not because they were dirty but because you think they're full of germs.
They were!
Do you used the washing machine, which you have.
Having a washing machine isn't preventing me from turning into an ice cube right now. You know those cartoons were people are frozen in solid blocks of ice? That's what going to happen here today.
No, it won't. I'll make sure it doesn't happen, but I want you to forget about being cold and just listen. I know that's hard for you but try. For Me?
Ok... fine...
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Beautiful Scars
I just started playing with the color feature, can you tell? Every thing's purple and I don't know how to change it back... haha
I love summer. It's warm, wonderful, and without school! There are also days when I'm not a fan of summer. You see, having a tan makes my scars visible. Maybe only to me, but they make me self conscious, and I hate looking in the mirror in the summer.
Some people have fun scars. My friend Brianne takes pride in telling me how she got every scar, bruise, and scratch up and down her legs. My scars aren't so fun. When I was little (like six) somehow I took a nose dive on pavement. I don't remember the incident, but I remember the nice scab is left between my two eyebrows. Eventually it went away, but it left this brown mark there for years afterwards. I used to tell everyone it was a birthmark. Sometimes my mom'd correct me and tell me it was a scar from the scratch I had for months. Sometimes she'd just let me think it was a birthmark. Well, eventually the "birthmark" went away, so I guess she must have been right.
The scars I'm more self-conscious about line my underarms as souvenirs from a Girl Scouts camping trip. I was trying to put the fire out, leaned over too far, and fell into smoldering coals. This resulted in the only ER trip of my life (besides when I was born... another story for another time... that one's actually funny) and second and third degree burns up and down both of my arms. (Oh, and a nice bruise on my leg). I had a miserable summer that year because I couldn't go swimming, I had to go to the doctor every few weeks, and it was almost impossible to wash my hands (Have you ever tried to wash and dry one hand?). Now, everyday when I put my hair up in a ponytail, I see the scars where my skin is messed up. Apparently, burning your arms kills the cells that tell your skin to stop growing (or something like that... My parents told me that recently when we were talking about it...). It also leaves fun designs on tanned skin... It's anything but beautiful.
You know Whose scars are beautiful? Jesus'. Physically the scars in His hands, feet, and side aren't necessarily beautiful but what they symbolize definitely is! Thanks to Jesus' scars, we're forgiven. Jesus' scars are the perfect example of God's mercy and grace. Mercy--God not giving us something we deserve--saved us from having those scars ourselves. Grace--God giving us something we don't deserve--sent Jesus to the cross so we didn't have to paid the price for our sin. The Sinless died for the sinful. You can't tell me that's not beautiful.
Lately, most blogs have included the lyrics to a song. Here's today's:
"Beautiful Scars" by Steven Curtis Chapman
Sit here with me
And tell me your story
Even if it breaks my heart
Let me see Your scars
Shame will whisper
Oh but we can't listen
'Cause these are the stories that make us who we are
And I love who You are,
and Your Beautiful scars,
Your beautiful scars
Reminders of the wounded love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
For us, bruised and broken
For us, He was forsaken
Our wounded Healer suffered to set us free
We see in His hands and His feet
Beautiful scars, beautiful scars
Reminders of the wounded love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
See in His hands and His feet
Beautiful scars, beautiful scars
Reminders of the Savior's love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
Oh how I love Your beautiful scars
So beautiful, so beautiful
Beautiful scars
In Christ,
<>< Katie
I love summer. It's warm, wonderful, and without school! There are also days when I'm not a fan of summer. You see, having a tan makes my scars visible. Maybe only to me, but they make me self conscious, and I hate looking in the mirror in the summer.
Some people have fun scars. My friend Brianne takes pride in telling me how she got every scar, bruise, and scratch up and down her legs. My scars aren't so fun. When I was little (like six) somehow I took a nose dive on pavement. I don't remember the incident, but I remember the nice scab is left between my two eyebrows. Eventually it went away, but it left this brown mark there for years afterwards. I used to tell everyone it was a birthmark. Sometimes my mom'd correct me and tell me it was a scar from the scratch I had for months. Sometimes she'd just let me think it was a birthmark. Well, eventually the "birthmark" went away, so I guess she must have been right.
The scars I'm more self-conscious about line my underarms as souvenirs from a Girl Scouts camping trip. I was trying to put the fire out, leaned over too far, and fell into smoldering coals. This resulted in the only ER trip of my life (besides when I was born... another story for another time... that one's actually funny) and second and third degree burns up and down both of my arms. (Oh, and a nice bruise on my leg). I had a miserable summer that year because I couldn't go swimming, I had to go to the doctor every few weeks, and it was almost impossible to wash my hands (Have you ever tried to wash and dry one hand?). Now, everyday when I put my hair up in a ponytail, I see the scars where my skin is messed up. Apparently, burning your arms kills the cells that tell your skin to stop growing (or something like that... My parents told me that recently when we were talking about it...). It also leaves fun designs on tanned skin... It's anything but beautiful.
You know Whose scars are beautiful? Jesus'. Physically the scars in His hands, feet, and side aren't necessarily beautiful but what they symbolize definitely is! Thanks to Jesus' scars, we're forgiven. Jesus' scars are the perfect example of God's mercy and grace. Mercy--God not giving us something we deserve--saved us from having those scars ourselves. Grace--God giving us something we don't deserve--sent Jesus to the cross so we didn't have to paid the price for our sin. The Sinless died for the sinful. You can't tell me that's not beautiful.
Lately, most blogs have included the lyrics to a song. Here's today's:
"Beautiful Scars" by Steven Curtis Chapman
Sit here with me
And tell me your story
Even if it breaks my heart
Let me see Your scars
Shame will whisper
Oh but we can't listen
'Cause these are the stories that make us who we are
And I love who You are,
and Your Beautiful scars,
Your beautiful scars
Reminders of the wounded love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
For us, bruised and broken
For us, He was forsaken
Our wounded Healer suffered to set us free
We see in His hands and His feet
Beautiful scars, beautiful scars
Reminders of the wounded love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
See in His hands and His feet
Beautiful scars, beautiful scars
Reminders of the Savior's love that has carried us this far
Beautiful scars,
turning the marks
Of our pain into beautiful scars
Oh how I love Your beautiful scars
So beautiful, so beautiful
Beautiful scars
In Christ,
<>< Katie
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Letting Go
I read Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls in 4th grade. I don't remember much from that book but part of it has stuck with me and I don't really know why. From time to time I think about the one scene I remember and today was one of those days. I was reading Breaking Free by Beth Moore and all of the sudden there I was thinking about a scene in a book I read nine years ago.
The protagonist (see, I don't even remember his name) was "'coon hunting" with pieces of something shiny. Anything shiny was put in a trap and a raccoon would come by and stick his (or her, I guess) paw into the trap to grab the shiny object. The problem was that once their paw was in around the shiny object in a fist, it was impossible to get it out of the trap again. If the raccoon would open their paw and let of of shiny object their paw would easily come out of the trap, but the raccoon was too selfish to let go and would rather die.
In the same way, we grab onto sin. God tells us all we have to do is let go and we can be free. If only it were that easy! So, here we stand with our wrists caught in raccoon traps with our fingers curled around sin and Jesus standing beside us telling us to let go. We're too selfish to listen to Him and would rather hang onto the shiny sin.
Let go of the shiny sin. Grab God's hand instead. I know, it's hard. But it's worth it!
<>< Katie
"He feeds on ashes, a deluded heart misleads him; he cannot save himself, or say, 'Is not this thing in my right hand a lie?'" Isaiah 44:20
The protagonist (see, I don't even remember his name) was "'coon hunting" with pieces of something shiny. Anything shiny was put in a trap and a raccoon would come by and stick his (or her, I guess) paw into the trap to grab the shiny object. The problem was that once their paw was in around the shiny object in a fist, it was impossible to get it out of the trap again. If the raccoon would open their paw and let of of shiny object their paw would easily come out of the trap, but the raccoon was too selfish to let go and would rather die.
In the same way, we grab onto sin. God tells us all we have to do is let go and we can be free. If only it were that easy! So, here we stand with our wrists caught in raccoon traps with our fingers curled around sin and Jesus standing beside us telling us to let go. We're too selfish to listen to Him and would rather hang onto the shiny sin.
Let go of the shiny sin. Grab God's hand instead. I know, it's hard. But it's worth it!
<>< Katie
"He feeds on ashes, a deluded heart misleads him; he cannot save himself, or say, 'Is not this thing in my right hand a lie?'" Isaiah 44:20
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