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.

IAMBUT's

In this culture of discontent, we often find ourselves unhappy because of things we cannot control, choices we’ve made or the circumstance we find ourselves in. I am a perfect example of that. You see, I suffer from the “IAMBUT’s.” It’s a very serious disease that I was made aware of by my college friend and blogger Jon Acuff. I am fairly certain it has reached epidemic proportions. (I have thought about calling the CDC to get exact statistics, but I am not sure if they give those out to just anyone.) We live in a world of instant gratification where a prayer to God--the Almighty, Creator of all life and knowledge, Lover of my soul--sounds more like a wish to the genie in the bottle rather than unadulterated praise and worship and where life is “what you make it” instead of what HE makes it.

If the truth be told, there are two different strains of IAMBUT’s going around. Not everyone has a terminal case of the IAMBUT’s. Like in many things, intent plays a huge role in how your IAMBUT’s are diagnosed. For example the moment I said, “I am a sinner but I want Jesus to be my savior” was the day I became His. Unfortunately, many people who suffer from the IAMBUT’s aren’t wishing for Godliness, eternal life or spiritual wisdom. We are wishing for circumstantial changes--job, relationship status, or physical appearance. We are seeking earthly happiness not eternal joy. I am living paycheck to paycheck but I want to win the lottery.

In my mental meanderings on this subject I have been thinking a lot about Job. If anyone deserved to have a justified case of the IAMBUT’s, it was Job. (I’d totally give him a free pass to wallow for a day, a week... However long he needed, really.) How easy would it have been for Job to say, “I am suffering but I want to be well.” Or even “I am trusting in God but I want this trial to be over.” But he didn’t. Job trusted that it would all turn out well in the end. No “ifs”, “ands” or “buts...”

That little word “but” in the middle of the sentence changes everything. You go from acknowledging who or where you are to imagining yourself as omniscient. Job seems to have understood that. He knew that through all his pain, suffering and sorrow he was where he needed to be, doing what he needed to be doing. He never once said, “IAMBUT” selfishly. He simply trusted. Oh to have the faith the size of a mustard seed...

We all to often forget that we are who and where we are for a reason, just as Job was suffering from famine, death and disease. God was glorified in all Job said and did. I wonder if God is glorified in my words and actions?

God designs our life--nothing in our lives is a surprise to God. We were fearfully and wonderfully made--and made with a purpose in His mind. God doesn’t make mistakes--even when I do. (Though he does reserve the right to discipline and shape me when I have those lapses.)

When I hear myself think, “I am single but I want to be married,” I may as well say, “I know better than you do, Jesus, so send that Christian hunk my way. Pronto.” I am making myself and my wishes a false idol at which to lay my disappointment, sorrow and discontent when things don’t go like I planned. And no matter how much my heart desires it and my actions will it, I will have the “IAMBUT’s” forever. Or at least until the the “I AM” is enough.

So here is my list of “IAMBUT’s” It is raw. It is real. But it is no longer enough. I am exactly where God wants me. (Right now it feels like the part of town you hesitate to drive through past sundown and never without the doors locked, but that’s OK.) So rather than harbor these shards of discontent in my life I am giving them up. Every minute of every day. Sometimes every second of every minute. And sometimes I will fail and pull them back off the table and nurture their bitterness in my heart because they are familiar and they are comforting. Until they cut and burn me. Again.

I am single but I want to be married.

I am flawed but I want to be perfect.

I am working in publishing but I want to be teaching again.

I am me but I want to be good enough.

I am broken but I want to be mended.

Today, I am giving up my “IAMBUT’s.” It’s scary. It’s nerve wracking. However, it’s what I am called to do.

"You shall have no other gods before Me. You shall not make for yourself an idol, or any likeness of what is in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the water under the earth.” Exodus 20:3-4

Cursors Taunt

I love to write. It's my secret passion. Not many people know I write. I wish I were better at keeping up with it. I am not. I can tell when I am emotionally in a bad place--I don't write. I hear something that triggers a thought and I sit in front of a blank screen and watch the cursor blink off and on--taunting me. It's like it's saying "Come on, you idiot! You THINK you're a writer... Well, you're not." And so I buy into it. And suffer from the biggest writer's block known to man.

So this is a terrible blog. I know it's a terrible blog. But you know what?! I need to write. Even when I don't feel it and even when I don't want to, I need to. I feel my soul withering up and I need to stop it. SO... Thanks for letting me write--even if it is writing. Terribly. Because it is--writing terribly. Ugh. But, first and foremost, it's writing...