My Christmas, Unfiltered

First and foremost, I hope you had a wonderful Christmas.  

To be honest, mine wasn't that great, as far as ideal Christmases go.  My husband had to be at work at 4:00 am.   Both my kids were up at 6:00... Louis' nose is a snot faucet and Melody has no voice whatsoever.   Andy finally got home at 10:30, and we opened gifts with the kids, had a quick lunch, and everyone went down for a nap.  I got a 3-pack of flashlights for Christmas from my husband, with a note saying "you're the light of my life."  (rolling eyes in 3, 2, 1.....)    The kids woke up early from their naps because they were coughing so hard.   I assembled Melody's new fish-tank, which was the project from aquatic hell, if that place even has a proper name.  Whining ensued all afternoon.    Bath time couldn't have arrived quickly enough.   Getting ready for his bath, I pulled down Louis' pants to discover he'd had diarrhea, which was now all over my hand.  Two hours post-bath, one kid is now in bed, and the other is well on her way.   Andy has developed a nasty cough in the past hour, and I've decided that I'm gonna sleep on the couch if I want any hope of a decent night's rest.    

My therapist often reminds me that life isn't fair.   I'm totally okay with unfair.    But there are some days when it feels like life is flipping me off over and over again, and has an agenda to break my spirit.  Days like today are normal for me.    And to be truthful, it took me a shot of whiskey during dinner prep to make it through the entirety of this evening without inflicting bodily harm on someone in my household.  And then (while the whiskey was still burning its way down my esophagus), I caught the line of a song on the radio.  I can't quote it verbatim (the burning of the whiskey was probably impeding my short-term memory retention), but the gist is that "a humble entry into this world was enough for Christ."    (cue squealing brakes noise now)    I've sang Christmas carols at least 1000 times.... and have heard the Christmas story no fewer than 100.    But today, the thought jarred my brain.   It wasn't the thought of Jesus being born into a manger... I wrapped my mind around that a long time ago.   Tonight, the question of "why was that enough for Him?" swirled through my brain.  Like everything else Jesus did, this was a lesson to His followers.   Not that it was the sole reason for being born in a manger, but I think part of the reason for being born into such stench, squalor, and humility was to show us that "stuff" doesn't matter.  The circumstances of his birth were more than okay to Christ because the only thing that mattered to Him - and the only thing that should matter to us - is the knowledge that we are the sons and daughters of The LORD Most High, and partnering with God's mission on this earth.  How ironic is it that two millennia later, we celebrate His birth by spending outlandish amounts of money to buy temporal gifts that we don't really need?   Ironic, but mostly sad.    God definitely gave me a good talkin'-to tonight... about how fish tanks and flashlights and crap on your hands don't matter. He matters.   That's it.  

God's been taking His sweet time in teaching me this lesson.   He's spent the last 18 months or so stripping away everything that was comfortable,  predictable, or status quo in my life.  I was dismissed from my "dream job" last year,  my marriage has been an uphill battle for the past several months, I feel like a week doesn't go by without someone in my family being sick, I can't get ahead with my finances.... nothing, I repeat, NOTHING, has gone according to my plan for as long as I can remember.  And apparently it's been so I would learn that none of it really mattered in the first place.   I echo Solomon's sentiments and say "Meaningless!  It's all meaningless!"    But I also agree with him when he sums up his thoughts on life: "The conclusion is this: Fear God, and keep His commandments."    God.    He's what matters.  That's it.   The end.  

Not That Simple

I’m in dire need of a purging of my mind, so here it goes......

In the United States, the past few months have been full of controversy.    Confederate flags, homosexual marriage,  and church shootings have been at the top of the list for every news station across the nation.  I can barely force myself to look at my Facebook feed because the controversy spills over onto social media until its saturated with hurtful, argumentative, angry words that offer no room for productive conversation.   Generally speaking, it seems like the Christian community has been blindly throwing out Bible verses like hand grenades, seeking to level anything in their path and prove their point in 140 characters or less.   (I said GENERALLY speaking - I have read some very thoughtful and sensitive Christian perspectives on these topics.)  This  - the grenade-throwing - provokes the eye-rolling of non-believers as well as those believers who’d prefer to see a conversation with a lot less mud-slinging and a lot more compassion.   

Let me pause here to make it very clear that I am indeed a follower of Christ.    My faith is the cornerstone of my life; everything is built around it.   But no matter how central my relationship with Christ is in my life, that doesn’t make the circumstances of life as simple as some Christians would have me believe.    I’ve had to fight tooth and nail for my faith, and that makes it all the more priceless to me.   Even though I believe in the Bible, I also believe that life is excruciating, and sometimes it’s impossible for me to apply a chunk of Scripture to my dilemma at hand, click my heels 3 times, and have my joy magically restored.   It’s not that simple.    

I was raised in a church where things were black and white.   There was no in-between, no gray, no sitting on the fence.     No swearing, not even the occasional “piss” or “hell”.   No drinking, not even a glass of wine on your anniversary.  No skipping a church service, even if you were running a 105 degree fever and had boils covering your body.    No listening to any genre of music other than Southern Gospel.  If the band name included anything other than a surname, they were out of the running for song selection.    You get the picture.... the rules were hard and fast.   Even though I now understand that these rules were over-the-top legalistic, it made things simple.   Why?  Because it caused me to disengage my brain.     If I stuck to God’s rules, abided by His code, then I would get into heaven free and clear, no questions asked.   But in disengaging my brain, it was a huge detriment to my faith.   I wasn’t “allowed” to doubt or question.  (Yes, looking back, I realize that a lot - but not all - of these rules had at least minimal scriptural basis and were intended to keep me from harm.)  In my youth, I offered up a few questions, and quickly realized that those questions, too, were against the rules.  It lessened my view of who God was because I deduced Him down to an intolerant, ungracious, rule-slinging monarch.  It seemed like those who I looked to for answers were afraid that God couldn't stand up to my adolescent skepticism.  And it took me almost a full decade to “un-train” my brain, to realize that God is so much more than a score-keeping rule-maker, and that He isn't intimidated by my skeptical heart.    

In my pride-filled immaturity, I made the horrific mistake of conveying this idea of God to those around me.    I was a college freshman convinced that my community college was my new mission field, and that I was going to bring “truth” to my fellow classmates.    A few listened to me while I told them why I didn’t swear, or why I chose to attend church services approximately 3.1 times a week, or why I would never, EVER drink an alcoholic beverage (again).   I had close friends that confided in me the life-changing struggles that they were facing.    Instead of acknowledging the reality, pain, and enormity of their struggles, I simplified them.   I retrieved a few Bible verses from memory, quoted a rule to correlate with those Bible verses, then spewed words that reflected nothing but legalism, hatred, and a blatant lack of grace and love.   There’s a long list of those I’ve wounded in my zealous ignorance.  I’m in the process of forgiving myself for wounding so many others.     

That list of people that I wounded has resurfaced over the past several months.    This year has been the hardest year of my life.    I experienced a wound more severe than I ever thought possible.   I look back at the people that I've wounded, and it makes me nauseous to think that I could've caused them the level of pain that I'm experiencing right now. To steal the lyrics of an old hymn, “this has been the darkest night my soul has ever seen.”   I’ve had some people tell me to “just forgive” or “it’s time for you to move on.”     I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not that easy.  I know that I am commanded by Christ to forgive.    But I refuse to do what I once did - disengage my brain - just to say that I was blindly obedient. Even though there's something honorable about blind faith, for me wrestling with truth and life causes me to put even more stock in the faith that I cling to so dearly.    Forgiving is not that easy for me.     So when I do forgive, it’s not a few cheap, heartless words that I toss out without a thought.   When I forgive, it comes after hours and weeks and possibly months of struggle.     When I forgive, it’s worth something to me, and hopefully to the one I’m forgiving.   Forgiving, to me, isn’t that simple.   

Just like forgiving isn't that simple for me, it's not simple for me to blast my lack of acceptance for homosexuality across social media when some of my openly gay and lesbian friends exhibit more authentic love, compassion, grace, and mercy toward others than some of my proclaiming Christian friends do.  Yes, I know that I have to demonstrate the same grace to my Christian allies as I do to my homosexual friends.   But still, it's not that simple.  

I’m not as careless as I once was.    Believe it or not, I hold my tongue more often than I let it loose.   I watch people and try to understand them much more often than I attempt to judge and offer “advice.”   And I’d like to think that I’ve learned a few things in this walk of life.    Primarily, I’ve learned that things usually aren’t as simple as the church would like them to be.    I still believe in right and wrong.   I still believe in sin. I believe in Heaven and Hell and Satan and the Holy Spirit. And most importantly, I believe in the redemptive power of the blood of Christ.  I stand by the Apostle's Creed. 

I also believe that homosexuality is real, not just a choice or a character defect that can be explained away by a few traumatic childhood events and a wild college frat party.   I believe that alcoholism is a disease that can grip even the strongest will.   I believe that depression and mental illness can overwhelm a person  to the point of despair, no matter how many times they recite verses or entire books of the Bible.  I can understand how a single mom can feel so helpless that she makes the choice to abort her unborn baby.   I can understand how a husband feels so unwanted by his wife that he turns to another to meet his needs.  I can understand why the abused child struggles with forgiveness, even well into adulthood.   Do I support these things?  No.   I haven’t experienced every one of these things firsthand.  But I can try to empathize.  I can have compassion and extend grace to my brothers and sisters.   I’ve played the role of the judgment-casting hate-monger, and it’s ruined more relationships than I care to admit.  I can say with certainty that my former lack of compassion didn't convince anyone that Jesus was the answer they were looking for.  

Now, I just acknowledge that life isn’t simple.    Wounds, struggles, addictions, sin... they’re not simple things that can be “fixed” in a 30-minute counseling session.    Sometimes they require your sweat and blood and tears.  And even after you’ve put in the work, you still have to wrestle with your identity, your relationships, and your faith.    That’s not simple stuff.   I recently read an article that echos my heart: "It is OK if we don't understand everything fully. The problem arises when we settle for easy answers rather than wrestle for real truths."   

I've committed to wrestle for the real, hard truths.     Because real life is worth so much more than settling for the simple way out.    And real truth, real healing, real resolve, is worth so much more when we're willing to dive in deep to find it.   

Seeing the Butterflies

Any of you with children know that there are many lessons to be learned from infants and toddlers.   

I have a two-and-a half year old who’s too smart for her own good.  She can be sassy.   She now thinks sassiness is okay if she addresses me as “Honey” at the end of a brazen remark.   Example:  “Put my sandals on right now!...... Honey.”   The comment is typically followed by a slight tilt of the head and overt batting of the eyelashes.  She’s cute, and she knows it.   She’s independent.  She’s assertive.  She’s funny.  She’s smart as a whip.   She’s unquestionably my daughter.   Sometimes I watch her and fall in love with the life that I helped create.   Sometimes I watch her make a mess and, in the moment, want to give up on motherhood all together.   But if I take a deep breath and count to 10... or 20... or 5,793... I generally find a lesson to be learned.   This week, I learned to notice the butterflies.

It’s summer.   There are insects everywhere.   We share our 1,400 square foot home with spiders, gnats, flies, ladybugs, ants, earwigs, moths, mice (in the basement), the occasional cricket, and countless other unidentified arthropods.    My perpetually curious daughter loves to watch those insects.  She’s scared of ladybugs...all other bugs are fair game.   

A few days ago, the front door was open, and Daughter had her nose shoved up against the screen door as she watched traffic go by.   She left her post and ran into the kitchen exclaiming, “Momma!  Momma, look at the butterfly!”   So I humored her and went to look at the “butterfly” that she was so excited about.   Sure enough, something was on the screen of the storm door.   She called it a butterfly, and she was thrilled to just stand there and watch it.   But I was quick to correct her error.   “That’s not a butterfly; it’s a moth.”   She firmly stood her ground and maintained that it was indeed a butterfly.   I let her “win” the argument and conceded that it was a butterfly. 

I went back to cooking lunch, but kept thinking about the moth on the screen door.   I wondered if Daughter really was right.  I wondered if the insect on our screen door was a moth or a butterfly.   So I went to the infallible source.   I Googled it.   Difference between moth and butterfly.  I thought there’d be some huge entomological explanation to explain the difference between the two.   But there’s only one thing that separates them.  Do you want to take a guess to the one single tiny thing that makes a butterfly a butterfly, and not a moth?  Here’s the difference:  Moth’s have no “club” on the end of their antennae, but butterflies do.   That’s it.  A tiny little knob on the end of a tiny little antenna is the tiny difference that separates butterflies from moths.

Why did I think it was a moth instead of a butterfly?  To be honest, because it wasn’t pretty enough.   It didn’t possess wings with intricate patterns of three or more colors of the rainbow.   It didn’t cheerily flutter about, landing on daffodils and blades of grass.   It didn’t make me smile.   Instead, it was a washed out brown color.  It just sat on the screen of the door and didn’t move.    Daughter and I were both looking at the same thing, but our perceptions were different.  

My perception was skewed by opinions and biases and persuasions.   Daughter had a clearer perception than I did.   All she saw was an insect that had wings!  She didn’t care about its wing pattern or color or habit of flight.  She was just excited that a butterfly had landed on her door.   She was enjoying every second of it, and wanted me to enjoy it with her.  

My sassy two-and-a-half year old daughter taught me a lesson that day, a lesson about appreciating all the gifts I’m given, not just the pretty ones.  The gifts I’m given don’t always meet my expectations.  My kids came with health issues that can be inconvenient and downright scary.  I’m married to a workaholic.   I didn’t win the genetic lottery, and I don’t have the body of my dreams.  There are some months when the paychecks don’t cover the bills.   Friends have disappointed me with their words and actions.   Life does not always meet my expectations.    

But my daughter taught me to see the butterflies.   My kids have health issues, but they’re gorgeous and happy and (relatively) well-adjusted.   My husband is a workaholic, but he loves me and our children, and provides well for his family.   My body isn’t perfect, but it allows me to get to where I’m going without any major aches or pains.    Paychecks are small, but our fridge and pantry typically allow us half a dozen different dinner options.  Some friends have disappointed, but others have offered more grace to me than I ever thought humanly possible.  Life’s gifts aren’t always bold and colorful and cheerful.  Sometimes life’s gifts seem boring and lackluster.  But they’re gifts just the same.  

So I will choose to have the eyes of a child.  I will choose to see the beautiful in the midst of the plain, the magical in the midst of the ordinary , and the profound in midst of the simple.   I will choose to see the butterflies.   

Restoration

The basics.   That's what I'm relearning right now; the basics of my faith.  Lately, I've forgetten what is most important.  I've lost myself in theology and homiletics and doctrines.  Now I'm trying to find myself again in the simple, beautiful truths of the Gospel.  

I've been challenged to give up the unnecessary tasks that I've been clinging to, and slow down the pace that I've kept for so long.  So I rose to the challenge and started analyzing my life to see what I could give up and delegate and eliminate.   It hasn't been easy, but it's been necessary and refreshing.  Not only was I presented with the challenge to lay aside excess responsibility, but I've been reminded to engage in hobbies that refresh my spirit.   

It feels strange to type that;  an oxymoron.  When I think of hobbies, I don't think "spiritual growth."   I think "waste of time."   But with help from friends and the One who lives within me, I'm learning that my way of thinking isn't always right.  I'm remembering that it's in the most unexpected times that God speaks most clearly to my heart.  

Over the past month, I've given up several responsibilities that were monopolizing my time.  So there've been a few minutes of free time (gasp).  Last week, I got home from work and went down to my basement and hauled up an old coffee table that I picked up for free.  This coffee table is downright ugly.  It's finished in an orangy-gunstock color.  Someone used it as a workbench, so there's a dozen different colors of stain on the top, along with several holes from varying sizes of drill bits.  But I can't tell you how solid and sturdy that table is.  I about put my back out just carrying it up the stairs.  

When I first saw the table, I didn't see the ugly stain or the drill holes.  I saw its solidity, and the potential for what it could be with some elbow grease and a little know-how.  I'm currently right in the middle of refinishing it.   It's been slightly disassembled and heavily sanded and thoroughly cleaned.   I had to get down to the "bare bones" of the structure before I could start refinishing it for my intended purpose.  

And while I've been disassembling and sanding and cleaning, God has been reminding me that this is what the Church sometimes looks like: a pile of unwanted, underutilized furniture.  I can't tell you how many men and women that I've talked with lately that have absolutely no idea how much they have to offer.    When they look at the themselves, they see nicks and scratches.  They see all the damage that the world has done.  Maybe some of the damage was self-inflicted.  They feel like they've been discarded and left out on the curb for trash day.  They've believed the lies that they're unwanted or unskilled or unsightly.  But I've been blessed enough to be able to see beyond the surface.  Sometimes, God gives me glimpses of how solid and sturdy people are.  He lets me see the potential that lies within an individual.    He has reminded me that He's able to disassemble, repair, and refinish hearts and minds.  He has reminded me that He can accomplish His purposes with willing hearts.  He has reminded me that He is in the business of restoration.  

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: the old has gone, the new is here!"

Not the Happiest Mother's Day

All I wanted for Mother’s Day was a card from my husband and a picture of me and my kids all dressed up and ready for church.  I received neither.   I left for church fuming because my husband didn’t spend $4.99 on an overpriced Hallmark card designed by someone sitting in a cubicle.   I was doubly mad because my two-year old decided to hate me and didn’t want to sit still for two seconds to take a picture with me and her brother.  

I’ll be honest...  I didn’t have some instance of revelation or some heart stopping moment that caused me to snap out of my horrendous mood.  I’m stubborn, so it took me an entire day to realize how petty and childish I was being.  

I know there are some of you who think Mother’s Day should be a day for honoring the woman who birthed you.  There should be phone calls and cards and flowers and breakfasts in bed and jewelry and heartfelt letters.   I had that expectation this morning.  I thought that after spending 18 months of pregnancy, the least my husband could do was buy a stinkin’ card!  And M looked really cute this morning with her tights and tunic top and flower headband.  All I wanted was one picture! 

But I made myself choose joy instead of anger.  And over the course of the day, my mood changed.   My husband didn’t buy me an overpriced card for Mother’s Day.   But he does leave me notes of appreciation and encouragement all throughout the year, for no reason at all.   He didn’t make me breakfast in bed or take me out to dinner.   But he always does the dishes after dinner, and helps fold laundry when it starts to pile up.   

And my kids wouldn’t sit still for a photo.   But I’m thankful that they’re healthy enough to run around and throw a fit in protest.   That picture wouldn’t have been representative of what life at our house looks like, anyway.   We don’t live in our “Sunday clothes.”  I spend the majority of my time without makeup.  Who am I kidding?  Most of the time I refuse to put on basic supportive undergarments.   And M generally has breakfast in her hair, and dirt on her hands.  And L typically smells like poop or spit up.  I’m okay with that.  

So instead of focusing on what I didn’t get on this one day of the year, I looked at what I do have the other 364 days of the year, and I’m thankful to have been given so much.  

Pic-less

It started well over a year ago.  It was becoming trendy to deactivate Facebook accounts so that you could have more quality time with your family.  As if "quality time" could even be described as trendy.  I read dozens of blogs of women who were laying aside their smart phones and tablets and laptops and trading them in for finger paints and Dr. Seuss books and meaningful conversations with their children.

And as I read the thoughts from these women, I told myself over and over that I would never give a lifeless smartphone priority over my children.  That if these women were worth their weight in salt, they would be able to balance life; children and technology and household duties and all the miscellany that comes with it.  Then, last week I read a post from a friend.  (Actually, she was my high school choir teacher, but I swear the woman is only about 30 seconds older than I am.)  Anyway, I read her post.  And it echoed what I'd read a hundred times before.  I thought maybe it deserved some credence, so I started evaluating my time on my prized smartphone.   And I was sorely disappointed in myself.

You see, I bought my smartphone the week before my daughter had open-heart surgery, under the pretense that I could "easily communicate her health status with everyone."  So when she was in the hospital, I emailed and texted and posted updates.  Then, to occupy my time, I'd download an app here and there...music and games and magazines.  Two years later, that smartphone is rarely more than 15 feet away from me.   A few days ago, Daughter got ahold of my phone and entered an incorrect passcode over and over again, disabling the phone for 15 minutes.  When I realized what she'd done, I about went into cardiac arrest because I couldn't imagine functioning for 15 minutes without my beloved iPhone 4S.  It was then that I decided to stop.

Am I going to stop texting or posting on Facebook or chatting with friends?  No.  But I am going to stop overlooking my children and my life all in the name of time-sucking technology.  Today was Day 1.  The reward became beautifully evident at about 3:00 this afternoon.  Daughter has been a little sniffly, which equals a clingy toddler.  For her afternoon nap, she wanted to sleep in my bed.  I put her in bed, but that wasn't enough.  She wanted me to lie down next to her.  So I scooped up Son as well, and we all snuggled in.   Before I knew it, we were all asleep.  I woke up before Son and Daughter.  I looked over at the gorgeous boy and girl who I'd given birth to, and was overcome with.... the desire to grab my smartphone.  (What did you think I was gonna say?)  Yes, the first thing I wanted to do was take a picture of those beautiful sleeping babies and post it to Instagram (with a filter that would add appropriate dramatic effect) and Facebook so that my 300-ish friends and followers could witness how idyllic my life was at that exact moment.  But I withstood the urge to grab the time-sucking piece of metal and plastic. Instead, I just stared at my babies as they slept.  It wasn't anything exciting.  I actually really had to pee, and my arm was asleep, and I needed to blow my nose, and Son was lying too close to me and was making me sweat.  But I stayed still and watched them, and now that afternoon can never be replaced.

There are no pictures of sleeping babies.  There's no post that will collect 21 "likes" and 7 comments with smiley faces and hearts.  But there is the magnificent reality that I got to spend uninterrupted time with my babies.  And when they're old enough to actually remember these afternoons, they'll remember a Momma who was delighted to love her family well, not an unfamiliar woman who was consumed with "life" on the other side of a touchscreen.

Lessons in the Dirt

God has to use simple illustrations to teach me things.  Some of my biggest life lessons have come from trees or rocks or dirt.  I have a Bachelor’s Degree in Agriculture, with specializations in Plant and Soil Science, Turfgrass Management, and Landscape Horticulture (it’s a mouth-full, I know).  I’ve worked in the Green Industry for close to 10 years.  Then, almost seven years ago, I married a dairy/crop farmer.  Add that experience to my formal education, and I am an agricultural guru.  So often the Holy Spirit can take something as small as a grain of sand, and speak monumental Truth into my heart.  This week has been one of those experiences.  

I decided to join a Bible Study group last week.  As with any Bible Study, the first week can be a little bland because the material is basically an introduction to the “real” study.  I assumed this study would be no different; that I would fly through the 5 lessons and return next week, unchanged, waiting for the good stuff.

Not what happened.  

The leader of the Study handed out a memory verse for the week (at which I subtly rolled my eyes. C’mon, are we in Sunday School?).  I took the small card and stuck it in my Bible.  Whatever.  Then, I got home, and actually read the verse.  Uh oh.  A verse with a farming reference.  I knew what was about to happen, so I prepared myself to be spiritually challenged by this verse over the next few days:

Break up the hard ground of your hearts, for it is time to seek the LORD, that He may come and shower righteousness upon you.  Hosea 10:12b

I hope to not bore you with a lot of farming mumbo-jumbo.  But this half-verse has completely rearranged my heart this week.  You see, while I was in college, I took a Master’s Level Course called Sustainable Agronomic Agriculture. Basically,  it was about how the world’s food crops can be grown year after year without depleting the soil volume, or the soil quality.  I know that sounds boring to 99% of the population.  But this week God began to open my eyes to some of the things we have been taught by this world, and how those things conflict with His standards, His calling, and His way of life.

Plow: (verb) to turn up the earth before sowing.  This is what farmers have done for thousands of years every spring.  You turn up the earth, you plant seed, you wait for rain, you let the harvest grow, you reap what you planted.  But in recent years, farmers have adopted a practice called “No-Till Farming”.  Instead of plowing, you plant the seed into the hard earth.  Why?  Because the soil doesn’t erode, there are fewer weeds, and you don’t have to fertilize as much.  In No-Till Farming, the farmer’s crop depends on the inherent quality of the soil in which the seed is planted.  Professors and agronomists and environmentalists are traveling around the nation pleading with farmers to adopt this practice.  

But that’s not the practice that God has called us to adopt.  And this week, He told me why.  There are some physical characteristics of a plowed field that God wants us to possess spiritually.  A plowed field requires more water.    Jesus calls Himself the Living Water (John 4:14).  When we intentionally overturn the soil of our hearts, we are prone to drought.   We have to continually choose to trust Him to rain his Water on us. A plowed field needs more fertilizer.  When a field is plowed, it allows nutrients to be leached out of it.  So is the same with our hearts.  When we humble ourselves to His will and His leading, it can sometimes be draining.  But God promises that He will sustain us and carry us as long as we live (Isaiah 46:4).  A plowed field is prone to more weeds.  When we allow our hearts to be broken before God, it also leaves us vulnerable to things of this world.  We have to make a conscious effort to take stock of what we are allowing to grow in our hearts, and tend to the crop accordingly.  If it’s not honoring to Him, get it out of your field! (Matthew 15:13)  Overall, when we choose to “plow the hard ground of our hearts,” we are choosing to humble ourselves and become dependent upon God, and He always honors a heart that’s dependent on Him.  (Psalms 149:4)

And there are also some things we can learn about the field that isn’t plowed, the No-Till technique.  In no-till farming, the soil needs less water, less fertilizer, and less weed control because it relies completely on the nutrients that are found within itself.  In essence, this is how the world tells us how we should live.  Rely on ourself, look out for number one, you are your only ally.  But when we rely on our own resources, we are telling God that we don’t need Him, the He is unnecessary.  But in reality, he holds our lives and our breath in His hand. (Job 12:10)  In no-till farming, the soil is more prone to disease.  Because the soil is compacted, there is less room for air to circulate between soil particles, creating a perfect environment for disease, particularly fungus.  If we don’t allow the Holy Spirit to breathe Life in us, we are going to become stagnant and diseased.  When we choose to let the soil of our hearts become unproductive, we are allowing Satan access to snatch up whatever God tries to plant. (Mark 4:15)

This is what I’ve learned this week: to allow my heart to become ripped open.  It’s not necessarily a great feeling, but it puts me in a position where I am required to rely on my Maker, my Creator, my Sustainer.  Who else would I rather be tending my field, my heart?