Waking Up is Hard to Do

[Continuation of my last post on the Holy Spirit’s Fire]

I'm not a morning person. The parts of my brain that handle coordination and reasoning don’t seem to wake up until the afternoon some time.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m clumsy ‘round the clock, but it’s worse in the wee hours. At the end of nearly every day, I discover bruises on my body that most likely came about as I bounced off furniture and doorframes on my early morning trek to the kitchen.

Winter mornings are the worst for me. I have to plug-in my alarm clock across the room or else there's no convincing my little piggies to touch the cold floor. I dread fumbling in the moon glow and trading my warm blankets for a robe and slippers that have seemingly gathered frost overnight.

I think the same holds true for spiritual awakening: without warmth and light, it ain't gonna happen. We need the Holy Spirit's fire to keep us from shivering and blundering in the darkness of our sinful nature:

Making Life Count

It’s been a tearful day for our family. This morning, my dad called to share the news that his sister passed away. After a long battle with ovarian cancer, my dear aunt has gone home to be with Jesus.

Although I'm grieving, it brings a smile to my face to know that she’s rejoicing in God’s presence. I’ll always remember standing beside my aunt in church as she sung from the hymnal. She wasn’t timid about raising her voice to sing for her Savior. And now, at last, she’s singing for Him in Heaven.

“...We do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.”  - 1 THESSALONIANS 4:13-14

There’s no denying that my aunt lived her life to the fullest. From her dedication to teaching, to achieving her masters in her later years; from honoring her husband, to raising her children; from traveling the world with her family, to hosting gatherings in her home—it’s clear that every one of her days mattered.

She lived a life worthy of the calling she received (Ephesians 4:1). She made a loving impact on every life she touched. I want to live like she lived.

But I have a long way to go.

The Blunder Games

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You might say that my husband, Chris, and I aren’t outdoorsy types. It’s not that we don’t like nature. We just prefer to bask in the glow of our computer screens.

Last month, we bid our 3G signals adieu and vacationed in the Poconos. The trip had quite a few highlights. We took a hike in the woods, went swimming, and tried out a few new recreational activities. Shuffleboard was harmless enough. Row boating was a little on the daring side (we rowed in circles for a while until we sorted things out). Archery, however, was an adventure in itself.

The Master's Brushstrokes

When I was 18, my thoughtful cousins gave me a Chinese watercolor kit for Christmas. Excited to try out this new art form, I turned to one of the “advanced” paintings in the book, which depicted two yellow birds on a branch with a mountain in the distance.

Easy peasy, I thought. After all, I’d had plenty of experience with watercolor in school, and the composition seemed really simple.

So, I dove right in. I swished the tapered brush around in some water, plunged it into the pigment, and gave it a go.

A few minutes later, I was finished. But my rendition looked nothing like the one in the book. Sure, the proportions were close. It clearly represented birds and a mountain. But my short Western-style strokes gave the painting a completely different feel. The beauty of simplicity was lost in all my anxious dabbing at the paper.

Are You an Imitator or an Innovator?

I’ve been a fan of jazz since I was a little tyke. Throughout my childhood, my dad and I crooned along to Sinatra around the dinner table. It wasn’t always pretty, but all of that practice came in handy when I landed the part of vocal soloist for my high school’s jazz band.

In preparation for our first performance, I listened to hours of songs by the classic jazz greats, determined to mimic every trill and melismatic fluctuation of notes.

I marvelled at how the original artists were such innovators, improvising sounds with genuine soul and skill. I knew that my imitation would pale in comparison, but I felt confident that I’d be decent enough to be entertaining.

Our first concert was lots of fun, and I recall feeling pretty good about myself afterward. That is, until I met Mrs. Burkholder in the hallway. She was my former choir director in middle school.

Getting Punched in the Stomach

After a long day in second grade, I slumped into a worn vinyl seat on the school bus and leaned my forehead against the window. I couldn't wait to get home to my dog, some cartoons, and a juicebox. The bus rolled along past farms and fields as I anxiously awaited a glimpse of the pine trees that lined my neighborhood.

A few minutes into the ride, a boy seated across the aisle leaned over and tapped my shoulder. “Hey short girl, how old are you?”

“Seven,” I replied, a bit miffed that this boy from my class didn’t bother to use my name.

“Seven?” he growled back. “I’m eight. How come you’re smarter than me?”

“Huh?” I wasn't as bright as my thick glasses and shy demeanor led people to believe. “How should I know? Maybe you should read more.”

And with that, he held me by the shoulder and pulled back his fist. The next thing I knew, his knuckles met my stomach with full force.

I winced, anticipating another blow, but that solid punch was apparently all he needed to release his aggression. He was done with me. And I was left to nurse my pain with the lukewarm icepack from my lunchbox.

When the bus finally arrived at my stop, I ran all the way home, flung open the screen door, and made a beeline for my father. His smile faded at the sight of my tear-streaked face, and he bent down to catch me in his arms.

Buried Treasures

Deep in the recesses of a linen closet, I keep two incredibly embarrassing old journals. Amidst poems and doodles, these spiral-bound pages catalogue the not-so-thrilling sagas of my high school crushes. Par exemple: “He turned around in study hall and asked to borrow my graphing calculator. Yippee! He knows I exist!”

I’ve considered tossing my old journals into a bonfire on more than one occasion. But whenever I page through them, I come across sweet family memories, vignettes from my early walk with God, and anecdotes about the Latino from youth group who’s now my husband. Those bits of nostalgia are worth treasuring, so the journals remain.

But what if, each evening, I dug up my journals and pined away for that guy from tenth grade study hall?