Forgiveness Rules:

When I was little, I used to daydream that I would find a genie and he would ask me for my 3 wishes. Being the clever kid that I was, I would ask for 10,000 wishes and trick the genie into giving them to me. Now, everyone knows that according to the “Genie Rules,” the first rule is that you can’t ask for more wishes. But, in my world, I somehow managed to finagle extra wishes.

As a kid, I was also rather manipulative. My sister Michele was the prime target of my machinations and because of who she is—that beautiful person—she gave me a skewed idea of what forgiveness is about. No matter what I did, Michele forgave me—and I never deserved it!—and she did it without qualm or second thought or consequence. She made me think that everyone is as forgiving as she is and that because I was sorry, it was all OK. She was, and still is, the most forgiving person I know.

In my spiritual journey, I accept the fact that I need forgiveness, but the actual forgiveness I have a hard time accepting. I think that’s pretty natural—human nature, if you will. And I get to the point where I just throw my hands up in the air and say: Accepting forgiveness can suck. Yep. I said it. Feeling forgiveness can really suck—especially when I don’t deserve it. Rough estimate here, but that averages out to be about 100% of the time. I never, and I mean NEVER, deserve the forgiveness I am given.

Today I read an amazing piece on forgiveness. My college friend, Jon Acuff posted on his blog an amazing story on forgiveness. He reminded me that no matter how many times I mess up and how often I stray, God forgives me. And not only does He forgive me, but he throws a party in celebration of my return. And it sucks because I don’t get it—I don’t understand how there is a love that is that encompassing and that pure that it can forgive the things I have done and said. It sucks to be forgiven just because I’ve asked—especially when I realize that I don’t deserve it—at all.

In fact, I feel so undeserving, my prayers to God often sound like this:

OK, God. I’ve done it again. Why can’t I love YOU more than I love the world? Why do I put myself in front of you? I want you, God. I want to be closer to you and to know you. But I’ve done it… AGAIN. I am so sorry. Change me, God. Change me.

To pray that prayer continually for years—sometimes a hundred times a day—I feel like I am running out. Running out of grace. Running out of words. Running out of forgiveness. But the beauty of God is that I am not even close. The blog I read today talks about God having 10,000 welcome home banners waiting for me—and it’s true. Not only are there 10,000 banners but also there are 10,000 forgivenesses waiting to be given. And what happens when I run out of those 10,000? I get 10,000 more. Unlike “Genie Rules,” God’s “Forgiveness Rules” are much more lenient—all I have to do is ask and I will be forgiven—no matter what I’ve done. And that is hard to accept.

And even though I’ve acknowledged my need for forgiveness and asked for it, when it is given so freely, I have a hard time accepting that I have been forgiven. Eventually I will learn how to accept forgiveness with the same grace it was given. Until then… being forgiven while feeling so unworthy sucks.

Thank God for “Forgiveness Rules.”

Just give me one tree.

Not too long ago, I had a tree planted in my back yard. The main reason I did this was because I wanted Wally to have some shade, but little did I realize that the tree I could afford is a scrawny little Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. I know it will eventually it will grow into a full tree that gives shade in the summer and gorgeous colors in the fall. But until then, I hope it doesn't snap in two when the wind gusts and that it's baby roots are digging deep.

Tonight I was reading in Genesis 2--the passage where God is providing for Adam through the Garden of Eden. I am in the middle of a huge transition right now in my life. I am in a job that is OK--but I know that there is a job out there that I love. I used to teach--and I loved it. I was fulfilled, I was happy, I was making a difference. Then I was fired. I was reeling, I was in pain, I was shocked. Now I am in a job that provides amply for me and has been a true blessing. But, this job is temporary. I don't know how much longer this job is going to be available to me.

So I have been praying lately about what to do about my job situation. I know that God has something special for me--but I am scared. It's natural--I know. But I hate being in limbo. And I have been in limbo for over a year. And it's rough.

As I read the passage about God providing not just a tree for Adam and Eve, but an entire garden. Now, we all know how well that ended for them--for us all, really. But God did it--he provided an entire garden for them. And I was reading about this garden, all I could think was "God, just give me one tree--one tree. One provision." I know I sound so selfish, but I don't know what else to pray--I need a shelter from this storm in my life. I need sustenance to keep me moving in God's will. I need roots to keep me from drifting away.

I need my tree.

Bicycle Salvation

Growing up in a large family meant lots of things—lots of chaos, lots of bickering, lots of laughter and lots of hand-me-downs. Being the youngest in a large family meant that I was the prime target for most of the hand-me-downs in the Cooper house. Some of them were greatly coveted and cherished—like my sister Michele’s bell-bottom jeans with the patches on them or my sister Lee’s cassette tape deck I inherited when she went off to college. Some of the hand-me-downs were much less of a joy to receive—like the Dorothy Hamill haircut Michele and I sported for about 4 years in the early 80’s.

However, there were some things my parents knew needed to be “brand-new” if at all possible and my first bike was one of those things. I remember it clearly—we were living in Jacksonville, Florida at the time and I was 5 years old. For Christmas, I got my dream bike. It was everything I wanted—from the blue glittery banana seat with the white trim to the matching streamers hanging from the handlebars. It was perfect. Sigh. This bike was also the second scariest thing I had ever faced in my five long years on Earth. (The scariest event to that point was my first American Halloween—I dressed as Little Orphan Annie and sat in shock as my parents sifted through my American candy to make sure there were no needles in them. Talk about scarring.)

But anyway, back to my perfect bike. Sigh. I loved that bike and I loved it when my Dad (mutton chops and all!) pulled me into the church parking lot beside my house and taught me to ride my brand new bike. Sigh. I remember being so scared, but excited at the same time. I remember my Dad running beside me as I pedaled as fast and as hard as my little legs could. I remember the wind in my hair—this was WAY pre-helmet days—and the scenery passing by in a blur.

I also remember falling many, many, many times. And each time I did, my Dad came running over, gently brushed off the dirt and brushed away the tears, and put me back on the bike and ran along side me as I regained my confidence. I remember crying “Don’t let go, Daddy—I am not ready yet…” and sure enough, eventually he let go and I actually was ready. For about 15 feet. I’d crash land and then we’d start all over again.

Eventually 15 feet became 20 feet and 20 feet became forever. I can still hear my Dad yelling pointers at me as I rode circles around that parking lot. “Sit up straight!” or “Don’t run into that bush!” When I started to lose my balance and fall off kilter, he was always there. Helping. Soothing. And sometimes chastising me when I deliberately did something foolish. No matter how good at riding my bike I became, I still had spills and tumbles. But I took them in stride. Falling off is just part of the gig. But, Dad was only a shout away and always came when I needed help getting back on the bike and back on track.

Tonight I was at Lee’s house and having a discussion with Lee, my 16 year old niece Emily and my 14 year old nephew Nathan. We were discussing the sermon our pastor preached this morning on the second coming of Christ. Nathan, in a fit of frustration said, “I know! I know! Once saved, always saved… But how do you know if you’re really saved to begin with?!” And so began this journey. I tried to articulate to him that it’s just something you know… but the HOW part was coming up short.

On the drive home, I began to really ponder this conversation. HOW do I know that I really am saved and don’t just think I am saved because I am ticking all the right boxes? Church? Check! Bible reading? Semi-Check! Prayer? Check! Tithe? Uh…

Then it hit me. How do I know I am saved? I know because when I am riding this bike through life and I fall off, I hear that voice that says, “Jenny—don’t run into that bush!” I hear the voice of God encouraging me practice good form and sit up straight. I sink into the embrace of the Holy Spirit comforting me in my grief. I feel the hand of God when I feel shaky—as if my balance is so precarious that I could fall off the right path at any minute. And when I do fall off the right path and make sinful choices? I am chastised and brought back to the right path.

In all my ways and sinful dealings, I can always hear the voice of God calling me home and convicting me of my wrongdoing. It’s like learning to ride that bike—God’s there beside me, directing me and encouraging me. And when I fall off? I still know he’s there—pointing me in the right direction to get out of the mess I have fallen into and holding my hand all along the way. All I have to do is cry out to Him and He will be there. It’s because of that voice that convicts and chastises that I know.

And in that conviction and chastisement I find comfort.