Posted by: bandaidchild | August 26, 2010

Motorcycle Diaries.

It’s three in the morning for Central time folks, but to my tummy that means NAM NAM time. Typically around 2:30 or 3, my coworkers and I (ashamedly) salivate over having McDonald’s breakfast menu up at 3:30. Plus, by that time in the morning criminals are too tired to commit crimes, and Neighborhood Watch ladies have (mostly) gone to sleep as well.

Sometimes, anyway.

So that leaves lots of time for thinking about food. But I digress.

I’ve got a lot of stuff to learn and study in the next several days, so I’m going to head to bed after I get all that is in my head out.

I watched the Motorcycle Diaries tonight. If you’re not familiar with it, I think it’s a phenomenal film, though Che Guevara is idolized, and his hatred is not displayed except for one sentence in the entire movie.

here’s the premise of the movie: Che and his buddy take a road trip in the early fifties starting in Argentina where they grew up, and taking a monumental road trip that lasts nine months. During their time, they encounter a number of poverty-stricken people, and the effects of an unjust government. Che was still a good, peaceful, warm hearted guy in his twenties. . . Che and his buddy are also almost doctors of sorts; Ernesto of Medicine, Alberto, biochemistry. They are invited to a leper colony, where they spend several weeks. Eventually they part ways and Alberto starts the Santiago School of Medicine, and Guevara… dies twenty years later trying to head up a revolution based on violence.


there is a scene in the movie that I love.

As Ernesto and Alberto are shown around the leper compound, there is a huge river dividing the doctors from the lepers. They’re well aware lepers are not contagious, but the doctors still keep their distance and use gloves even before stepping on that part of the soil.

Ernesto turns twenty five near the end of the movie. The doctors give him a big party, and as everyone is dancing and having a good time, he steps outside, looking out across the lake.

“I want to spend my birthday over there. Where’s the boat?”

“I don’t see it,” Alberto says, “perhaps we can go in the morning, yes?”

“No. My birthday is now, not tomorrow. I want to celebrate in the company of friends.”

Alberto pleads with him as Ernesto unbuttons his shirt, and finally dives in.

Alberto screams and screams, “your mother is going to kill me! Will you listen to me for once in your life! You’re going to die out there; there are wild animals, you idiot!” But Ernesto swims, swims, swims.

All the doctors and nurses come running out pleading for him to come back, too.

Ernesto has terrible asthma, and quickly starts to flounder in the water, but he keeps going. He keeps going. He keeps going.

The other side shouting has now woken up the lepers, who get close to the shore and start cheering their friend on.

The paradox fascinated me.

One side, who is educated, well-known, working with the “worst of the worst”, are shouting negative things at him, and the other side- the “untouchables”, the disfigured, the rejected, the smelly people, have got their feet in the water stretching out their hands, encouraging a very tired Ernesto that he can do it, just a few more strokes, that he’s almost there.

And I thought about this paradox in my mind as of late to be similar. While I don’t think I’ve been wrestling with Academia so much, I have been wrestling with giving up things I really didn’t want to give up. And there were so many excuses to stay on land. Dry. Comfortable. Breathing normally.

But I learned tonight that I needed to jump in and struggle, and get to the other side to realize what a victory it was, and will continue to be.

I’m celebrating on the other side tonight.

Posted by: bandaidchild | August 11, 2010

Where I’ve been.

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged, and it’s definitely been a while since I wrote in my own paper journal.

I can’t tell exactly what my solemn demeanor lately is due to. Maybe it’s my schedule. Maybe it’s because Overnightville makes you feel like you’re in a cloud during the daylight hours, and some things are more laborious than they were when you slept when it was dark like a normal person and arose with the sun, instead of the other way around.

I was offered a job I really, really wanted. I didn’t know quite what the position would entail, but I will share this: the amount of information I need to retain is astronomical!

And every shift I wrestle with focusing too much on the things I am not remembering, and all the ways I need to be prompted to accomplish things. Instead of patting myself on the back for how far I’ve already come, I find anything (proverbially or otherwise) to whip myself on the back.

And this is what I’m used to.

But for the first time, maybe ever, I’m finally understanding how harmful this is, and how I can really ruin my life with this line of thinking and subsequent action.

My thoughts might as well be compared to quick sand. And despite being an active participant in CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy), I’m still fairly uncertain on how to rectify these thoughts.

which has led me to believe that I’d been ignoring spiritual implications for a long time. So in a few weeks I’m going to address my quick sand, my whipping. . . all of it.

And part of me feels like I should be on the show Hoarders- because I’ve accrued dumb things I don’t need, but can’t seem to part with. If you’re not familiar with the show, here’s the premise: someone’s life has been ruined with stuff. They’ve alienated themselves by shoving crap in every crevice of their home, so that no one can even come into their home. A therapist attempts to help the individual see what their cushioning is doing to their relationships and their ability to cope with even simple bumps in the road. Items don’t leave people; people leave people, which is the appeal for hoarders as I understand it. While I don’t fear being left, I am afraid of parting with comfort. While my methods of comfort are, by all means, maladaptive, they still are more natural to me than what I know I need to be doing.

I’ve adopted theories, ideas, and lies that have attached themselves to me like crustaceans, and I get so used to them being there that I forget they weigh me down, make me look ugly even, and are not a part of who I am.

So begins the ripping. This won’t be like ripping a band-aid off, though. This is gonna be more like. . . ripping home-made stitches made out of fishing line in order for the Doctor to sew me back up the right way, so that I’ll heal the right way.

And those stitches will still take a while to heal. And I’ll beg to scratch and rip them out, but I can’t. If my hands need to be tied behind my back, I will let Him do what He needs to do, and I will trust Him to heal me because He is a God of healing, and not of destruction. He is the God is restoration, even if it involves some ripping.

Wish me luck.

Barnacles Attached To Rock Royalty Free Stock Image

Posted by: bandaidchild | August 1, 2010

The Porcelain Express.

In Finding Nemo, the blowfish realizes that “all portals lead to the ocean,” including the one they dub the “porcelain express”, which is why the gang want to get Nemo down the toilet so he can get back home.

Well, my phone doesn’t belong in the EAC (East-Australian Current). It belongs in my pocket. But where did it go without my permission? Down the porcelain express.

I was about to eat a short stack of delectable cinnamon and apple pancakes, but needed to utilize the facilities first because my bladder is embarrassingly small.  So, I do mah bid’ness, pull up my shorts, reach over to tap the handle, and my phone slips out of my pocket, and the next thing I know it is getting sucked down the drain. I stood there, cocking my head for a few moments, to try and ascertain what just occurred.

It’s kinda like that scene in Tommy Boy where the deer rips apart Richard’s brand new car, and all the two can do once the deer climbs on out and scuttles away is breathe, stare, and say…..”that…. was…. AWESOME!…. I mean, sorry about your car; that really sucks…”

Now in terms of financial difference, I get that a car is a slightly larger investment. But if it comes down to attachment, I was feeling pretty naked when I came back to the table after telling my friend what had just happened.

It’s been approximately twenty four hours since my phone was waterlogged and now lives among the rats.

There was no point in telling that, other than to help my transition through the grieving process.

Now, I don’t want anybody to think I take grief lightly. It’s merely that I am trying to laugh at myself and my circumstances more. A wise man told me several times that if I wanted an emotionally healthy life, I’d need to learn to laugh at myself. Some days are easier than others.

Actually, I feel like I’m in the midst of some grieving for real. A family friend passed away yesterday to suicide, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her family since I found out. She was my banker in Wisconsin. She was always incredibly patient with me, notarized a ton of stuff for South Africa, and sat with me and my parents as I signed a POD on my bank account in case I didn’t come back from South Africa alive. There are questions circling around in my head like vultures, waiting for answers that will never surface for one reason or another.

I guess this is the first person I’ve ever known who has attempted and succeeded and I am left wondering. Wandering.

In college, I used Post-it notes to remind me to do assignments (or to think about thinking about doing assignments), hold quotes, encouragement, and reminders of truth. One I re-wrote every semester on a yellow post-it was this:

“what crimes have you committed, demanding such penance, that couldn’t wait for five more minutes?”

(Caedmon’s Call- Center Aisle)

Maybe I wrote it in yellow because I knew the color would stick out more. Maybe I wrote it every year for the last two years of college because I forgot so often. Maybe somewhere in me, I knew I needed to cut myself a little slack, but the part I listened to more often drowned out Truth.

Maybe she needed to hear that. Maybe if she would have thought about what it was that warranted such punishment, that couldn’t wait for another five minutes to be sorted through, maybe she wouldn’t have done what she did.

I am really really trying to take five minutes to deduce what it is I feel is punishable that I try to control control control, and show myself Grace.

I just finished a book my therapist gave me about seven months ago. It wasn’t Little Women, just thick in terms of emotional density. This book painstakingly took me through things I didn’t really want to think about, but found it therapeutic to do so. As long as I thought of the workbook as homework, it was easier to shift past certain topics. Part of the work book is grieving over the loss of parts of your childhood.

Everybody has parts of their childhood that aren’t filled with hot summer days and lemonade stands, and this book taught me that it was OK to actually mourn over missing some things as a kid. So I’ve been doing that a little bit this week, too.

I am getting ready to change a lot of things about myself through confession and accountability and oral determination to die to myself. This change of clothing is really terrifying. But I think it’s about time I change my clothes. They’re getting old and stinky.

A bath never hurt anybody, right?

Posted by: bandaidchild | July 22, 2010

On the Up and Up.

In my other blog, I frequently utilized Matt Theissen’s brilliance as the primary writer for Relient K, so I felt it should be just as well on my new and improved blog.

Take a look at this fabulous writing. Relish. Ok….. Go.

Yesterday was not quite what it could’ve been;

As were most of all the days before.

But I swear today with every breath I’m breathing in

I’ll be trying to make it so much more

‘Cause it seems I get so hung up on the history of what’s gone wrong

And the hope of a new day is sometimes hard to see

But I’m finally catching on to it, yeah the past is just a conduit

And the light there at the end is where I’ll be

‘Cause I’m on the up and up, I’m on the up and up

And I haven’t given up, given up on what I know I’m capable of

Yeah I’m on the up and up and yeah there’s nothing left to prove

‘Cause I’m just trying to be a better version of me for You

A better version of me for You

To be prosperous would not require much of me

You see, contentment is the one thing it entails

To be content with where I am and getting where I need to be

And moving past the past where I have failed

But I’m finally catching on to it and yeah the past is just a conduit

And the light there at the end is where I’ll be

Never cease to supply me with what I need for a good life

So when I’m down I’ll hold my head up high

‘Cause You’re the reason why

yeah You’re why

I’m on the up and up, I’m on the up and up

And I haven’t given up, given up on what I know I’m capable of

Yeah I’m on the up and up so yeah there’s nothing left to prove

‘Cause I’m just trying to be a better version of me for You

I’m just trying to be a better version of me for You

I’m like a pot roast.

I like to stew on things for an undetermined amount of time until I feel it’s good and ready to be consumed. I’ve been thinking a lot about God’s Church, and how wonderful it is to worship with others on Sunday mornings, and how refreshing it is to talk of God’s Goodness, and less of the perceived thorn in my side. And about humility, and that I have to pinch myself as a reminder that God is on control, and that I need Him… always, not just when things are sunny side up. (I actually hate sunny side up eggs. But that’s not the point.)

Sunday I saw a woman in her thirties walk with her daughter to the front to be prayed for.

I watched her expressions as if I were flipping through pictures. Her hand motions, her eyes, her tears, her posture, really showed humility, or if nothing else, complete defeat.

and it struck me in a very stark manner. I know I am not living a life of humility like I want to, need to; and while I do express both pain and joy to God, I was reminded of how puffed up I can become. Not because I can play a set of drums, but because when all my puzzle pieces fit together, I walk away from the card table where He sits helping me, grab the car keys, and walk out the door to meet up with friends.

Seeing this very despondent woman laying everything out made me close my eyes and thank the Lord that He does not give up on me, and will wait for me to grow up. He wants me to come back to the table and look at all the other puzzles that haven’t been completed yet, and together we will sit, perhaps listening to Nat King Cole, and spend time together.

This isn’t me saying, “one day, I’ll be completely humble.” Because I don’t think that fully happens. But I can live with humility, and that will help me become the Disciple He wants us to be.

I keep wondering when I’ll burn my own proverbial paper trail. Instead I keep it organized in a notebook and study it, just to make sure I don’t forget all the ways I’ve failed. Even in this, I am acting with selfishness. God would love if I had a nice bonfire. I’m in the process of getting there, but it’s a little scary burning this book of mine, if you know what I mean.

Now? An awkward story.

On a youth group trip to Devil’s Lake in Wisconsin, I was convinced to come play baseball, and I only did because one of the cutest boys there cajoled me into picking up a bat. Unfortunately at this time, I was particularly. . . You could say, “gassy”, but I figured that my stomach would magically dissolve any of that before I stepped up to the plate.


I think I swung and miss twice, and so at this point, it was on. The bases happened to be loaded, and we were losing. It was all up to me. I swung, and once the baseball made contact with the bat, an explosion happened from behind me. Like a rocket, my flatulence propelled that ball all the way past the fence. Even more awkward were the subsequent little guys that spurted out every step I ran to first base. By this time, everyone was laughing, hearing my little engine roar. I made it across home plate to everybody cheering, “GO BOOM BOOM!”

The rest of the week-long trip I was no longer Becca, but Boom Boom. My fart won the game. I know I’m competitive, but… I took a mildly large bit of pride in that.

Thinking back on this, however, makes me cringe. Really? I really did that?

(Thank you, thank you)

And goodnight.


Posted by: bandaidchild | July 15, 2010

The time I forgot.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She placed too much worth in her job, and clung too tightly to stability. She sought wisdom, and realized that she had a whole mess of issues to deal with, and determined to start working on them. She did, and things began to get better because she was seeking God’s face, not her own.

Then, in a matter of a week or so, everything that was unstable in her life came together in a waterfall of blessings. She was overwhelmed and thankful.

and then she forgot. About Jesus.

in the wee hours of the morning on this day, she was given this poking from the holy spirit, and now? She is ashamed. She is ashamed because she treated God like a genie.

But for the first time in her relationship with God, she understands God is full of grace, mercy, and… jealousy.

And so now she is asking God to show her weaknesses, to show her how she is in desperate need of him, and to put her in her place.

I am so thankful that He wants to know me, and that His Word stands true, and that He is ever-present, and that I am nothing.

Posted by: bandaidchild | July 5, 2010

The Ugliest Dog I’ve Ever Met.

Our next door neighbors are very nice. The lady of the house even let me borrow a wrench so I could put up my punching bag. We clumsily bantered over which size I needed.

That made me feel happy inside to know I’m not the only woman that doesn’t attribute numbers to wrench sizes.

I learned in South Africa that the fastest way to get into the heart of a mother is to show her children love and affection. So that was typically the route I took when I knocked on a crooked metal door to invite myself into a Basotho (“ba-soo-too”) home. I’d play peek-a-boo, or play games of “kick this can across the yard into this bucket”, or watch their eyes glisten as chemicals that form bubbles danced upon their noses.

While I saw lots of babies with strings attached to their hip, or leg (signifying that witch doctors had instructed the parent to tie this color in this part of the body as protection) which made me sad, and how lots of them smelled like sour milk, and sometimes had bugs in their tiny fros, they were never ugly.

One day, out of my neighbors house, I saw the ugliest dog I’ve ever met. It’s a little Chihuahua thing. Her eyes bulge out of her head, and she shakes so violently that it looks like she’s afraid to be alive.

I decided, to be a good neighbor and get into the heart of my fellow neighbor, I’d love her ugly dog, who certainly was not ugly to her.

It didn’t smell, but that’s about all it had going for it. I always say hello to the doggy and try to pet it, but she doesn’t let me. ever. Jerk.

Then today after my workout, she came up to me and let me pet her. She’s remarkably soft! Let’s see, non-smelly AND soft. Two points.

So I’ve decided she’s not the ugliest dog I’ve ever met now.

She may have doggie-style agoraphobia, but I figure that she has redeeming qualities besides her softness and smell.

In conclusion, some (thing, one) may be ugly on the outside until you get close enough to inspect their idiosyncrasies.

That’s my thought for the day.


Posted by: bandaidchild | July 4, 2010

Snap, Crackle, Pop.

I’ve always found Rice Krispies to be one of the more tasteless cereals. Though that was typically one of three choices all growing up. Yum, yum!

Our neighborhood is engulfed in a shroud of smoke, colors, and noise. It probably won’t be a quiet night around here. My cat, Mike Tyson, has been hiding under the bed almost all day.

And I don’t blame her (yes, Tyson is a girl. We have two. that story is for another time); I’ve found myself quite pensive the last couple of days. All the places I have lived and traveled to overseas have been demolished and scraped back together from war. I’ve heard shot guns go off in South Africa when people came to hunt game on our base a few times in the year. I lived in a house in the middle of horseshoe mountains, so every shot made its way around the mountains; Dolby surround sound.

I’ve been thinking about all the wars that my Grandfather fought in, but never spoke about. I was reminded of the intricate folding of the flag and the 21 gun salute as we buried him in Willow Springs, Missouri on a cold day. I held a boy’s hand and tried not to cry.

I thought about the woman I met in Bosnia who hid in her kitchen for two years so she wouldn’t get shot by sniper fire. She lived in Sarajevo, one of the hardest hit areas, and the loud pops that make us giggle and say, “ooooh,” made a woman live in one spot in her house for two years because of those staccato, deadly pops. I remember seeing all of the buildings that somehow remain standing all throughout Bosnia and Croatia that look like swiss cheese.

And I remember even years after the war ended with Clinton’s presidency, that through clenched teeth and scorn looks how Serbians and Bosnians still hate each other, though they are the same people, and they live in the same land.

I thought about how much I hated to play the Memorial Day parade with the band. As if marching wasn’t enough, there wasn’t even any candy. I remembered despising how long it seemed we had to stand at City Hall and see men shoot guns over and over and over, and a canon and the mayor saying something forever.

I was selfish and stuck up for a long time in my life. It was an honor to see the men who’d served in wars and seen and smelled things I couldn’t imagine muster up the mental fortitude and tricep strength to place rifles in the air and shoot them in honor of those fallen to protect America.

To remember their brothers who heard shots ring about everywhere like bouncy balls in an enclosed room.

So I’m trying to stuff all my feelings into one folder. I can’t decide whether the “bombs bursting in air” make me happy that I live where I do, or whether they make me sad because other countries don’t get bright lights with their bangs, they get blood, destruction, loss.

And not to sound like debbie downer, but I can’t help but think of how these firecracker sounds must conjure up terrible memories for some veterans, whether they were born in 1935 or 1985.

Guess I will close my file folder and try to drift off to sleep either way.

I never thanked my Grandfather for serving in the war; I wish I would have.


Posted by: bandaidchild | June 27, 2010

Apple Filling

Recently one of my good friends moved on to greener pastures. Albeit those pastures would be found north from here, in Illinois, but for her and her husband, they sure liked the sight of anywhere but Joplin. I understand this compulsion; it’s easy to get disillusioned by a city. Once her best friend moved to a foreign country, I think she was ready to be closer to home anyway.

Before they sailed off to the Land of Lincoln, her and her husband gave me a whole bunch of stuff they didn’t want. Including a dryer, some pots and pans, packets of Chinese soup, twistie ties, marshmallows, about a thousand packets of hot chocolate (which I will most certainly devour in just a few short months), and a can of apple pie filling.

This pie filling has been passed down, not for centuries, but from at least two other couples who moved into their first home. I guess it was kind of a tradition to simply give it away when you moved, as had been done by previous couples. But here I was, hungry as a hippo, salivating over its contents. Guess I had no intention of “paying it forward”. It was just about the first food item placed in my new house since I’d moved. Soon I realized that we did not have a can opener in our house, so it stayed lonely on the shelf, along with the marshmallows and mounds of hot chocolate, doomed themselves to uselessness until the first frost.

And then tonight happened.

Jenny brought home a can opener.

And I opened it like the average child might open a Christmas gift: I might as well have had claws to tear open my surprise.

I slopped all the glorious apples in sauce into a bowl, got a big spoon, and fed the Hungry Beast inside me.

My surprise tasted noticeably more like pears, and the filling that came with it seemed to be a cousin of Petroleum Jelly.

It was definitely not yummy.

But I ate it anyway.

And I’m realizing I do that a lot with stuff. I create something in my mind to be the end-all-be-all: the epitome of greatness; something that will solve my issues, and then I get let down… But I still indulge in it regardless of its inability to actually solve any problems.

the petroleum apples hardly filled me. If anything, they nauseated me, though I felt some sort of moral obligation to finish what I’d started, since I had imagined them to be so dang tasty.

But all I did was ingest mildly disgusting (and probably beyond its expiration), high caloric, fructose apple-pear things encased in globs of petroleum jelly.

I am trying to see the things I endure, or indulge, because I feel like they will fulfill me. I am trying to see them so that I can eradicate them.

Lies I tell myself. . .

1. If I have stability with a job, I should be fine.

2. If I have enough money to get by, that will suffice right now.

3. This new med should do the trick.

4. I’m taking active steps towards Jesus and following Him; the rest should fall into place.

I know number four is a good one, but there is this part of me that is still systematically, logically, trying to map out my life all over again. So I suppose I’ll need to take a step back, evaluate my motives, and continue seeking Wisdom from His Word, those He has placed into my life, and speaking to Him.


My friend Stephanie has told me that before, but I don’t really like it. It jumbles up all my plans.

In my attempt to relinquish control I do stupid things like eat petroleum and apples together. Life is not what I want it to be. If it is what I want it to be, isn’t that selfish? Isn’t that abandoning God’s design for my life?

His path probably doesn’t involve high-caloric apple filling.


That’s all for tonight; I’m tired. I’m not too concerned if this makes sense to anyone else this evening.

Tally ho!


Posted by: bandaidchild | June 24, 2010

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. . .

This ingenious book was written in 1985, which just so happens to also be the year of this little lady’s birth. Eighty Five. What a good year. Some interesting things happened. For example, South Africa ended its ban on interracial marriages, and Michael Jackson and CO. sang, “We Are The World”; they also found Nemo… I mean the Titanic, in all its green, hauntingly still glory, and the FDA figured it should start testing for AIDS during blood donations, since it was like, a big (and real) deal and all.

I liked the book so much that I can still remember the colors in the books. All the blues, grays, greens and that cookie, of course. I appreciated the mouse because he was polite, and he even cleaned up after himself. Sure, sure, he kept wanting one thing after another, and one might interpret the mouse as just a little deadbeat, but I think he simply knew the natural order of things, and knew the boy would comply.

What if, instead of snotty entitlement, the mouse inquired because he knew whom he was asking?

I know it’s a stretch. But it’s how my brain works, and how God communicates to me often–making the most seemingly obscure connections to something appear to be God’s trademark in my life. It’s kind of like the seven degrees of separation for Kevin Bacon. But here it is anyway.

From here, I thought about John 15, specifically verse 7, where Jesus says, ” if you remain in me, and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be given to you.”

I understand how this verse could be seen as a “free for all”, asking Jesus for unlimited passes to the zoo (some of us twenty somethings still like the zoo. . . .But I’ve never asked for that. That’d be silly.), or something like that, but I think what God is trying to say here (ever notice how He is quite the wordsmith?) is this:

Hey. I want us to be close. I know what you need, but if you ask for it, I would love to give it to you. My desire is that you would know that I love to bless you, and that you would know My heart so well that you might be confident in how much I take care of you.

So it’s not so much that once you give a mouse a cookie, he’ll keep asking for more things (like milk…. Mmmmm…. I love milk), but that maybe the boy knew he’d ask for those things. And they aren’t burdensome to give. Despite the author’s lack of speaking about inner dialogue of the boy, I’d bet he loved giving his mouse things.

I’ve been asking God for some things I really need, like money for food and to help pay my bills. But I’m not yet confident enough to ask Him over and over. I think, am I being a beach comber? Am I being a loafer? Am I sitting on the couch waiting to be served? Ought I …. pray a whole bunch so that God knows we’re tight again?


Maybe not.

He wants a deep relationship with me, though I don’t believe that His statement in John 15 is contingent on our relationship being intertwined (though He yearns for it to be); I think that the intimacy with Him will give me confidence that He wants to bless me sometimes.

So I’m trying to have everyday conversations with the Big Guy, not so I “get what I want”, so that I come boldly to the Throne, and then start Trusting that He has my best interests at heart.

I’m hoping to be posting with more consistency as I have internet at my kickin’ crib now. Keep reading, keep learning, and I’ll be sure and keep posting awkward pre-teen like stories, too.


Posted by: bandaidchild | June 12, 2010

“Spiritual Amnesia”

That’s the name of a sermon I’ve listened to countless times. A gargantuan guy named Clayton preached this sermon at Ozark Christian College when I was a Sophomore. That was almost five years ago, and yet I find myself listening to it again and again, so I don’t forget.

But I have forgotten.

I’ve forgotten a number of things, actually.

I’ve forgotten that He is in control. And I am NOT.

I’ve let it slip that He loves me, and isn’t impatiently looking at his watch, waiting for me to crawl back to Him.

Or that He wants the best for me.

Or that He did not leave any of us; that He sent Jesus to be a tangible representation of His love, peace, patience, kindness, authority, and sacrifice.

That Jesus lounged with sinners, got His feet dirty, had every temptation we do but refrained, spent much of His time talking with His Father.

I forget the Holy Spirit lives inside of me.

(“and that is supposed to make us DANGEROUS.”)

I forget that He’s on my side. He has my best interests at heart—

and that the enemy has my destruction at the core of his intentions.

The other day, I realized how much my own amnesia had changed my worldview, my internal dialogue, how I pray, how I speak about God (or don’t talk about Him).

My rusty wheels began turning when someone recited this line from the Scriptures,

You are my son, with whom I am well pleased.

And all at once, we both began crying. But He cried out of joy, while I cried out of disbelief.

God would never say He is pleased with me; not anymore. I’ve dug my own path, and I need to pay for my disbelief, my lack of trust, my arrogance. I am dirty. I present sloppily; I’m ashamed. Proud? Of me? Why on earth would He be? The realist in me does not get this.

Despite my own self-defeating thoughts, what began is the understanding that I have believed an incredible amount of lies about Jesus. I’ve let them seep into my own Creed, and oh how it has changed who I am.

I don’t have to pay retribution. Or punish myself.

I always figured getting back on the Straight and Narrow took some of my own blood.

But it doesn’t. He shed enough. Why isn’t that enough?

I’m not sure how to describe the transformation that will happen, but it is going to be an internal renovation of dynamic proportions. And to God be the Glory of this renovating.

There will be scraping, smashing, remolding, ripping, stripping and gutting on my innards in the very near future. And while I’m not looking forward to this physical therapy, I know that I have been on the cusp of giving up so much in the last month, that I must do something. I must.

So, you’ll have to pardon the dust I’ll be stirring up in the next several months.

I hope you notice the ironic juxtaposition between June 1st and June 12th.

I hope you can see how God has brought me from hanging off the ledge, to seated, over-looking the beauty I was ignoring during my selfish endeavors.

Bethany Dillon (or someone) wrote a song called You Are On Our Side, and I haven’t stopped listening to it on repeat for roughly a week straight. It has brought me to tears a number of times, even.

You should look it up. And remind yourself of some things you may have forgotten over time.


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