Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Monday, October 6, 2008

My Autobiography

"Hey, Kim, what was that quote we were talking about the other day?" Samuel called to me from his conversation with a friend.

I balanced baby Ira and a cup of tea on the couch while trying to remember, "Uh... something like, 'Women that behave themselves never make history.'"

Sam's friend laughed. "I suppose it's true," he mused.

"Most of the women in the Bible were in exceptional circumstances," someone else pursued, "and some were exceptions in themselves; Mary for example, Esther, and so on."

Sam's friend smiled at me from his keen brown eyes, "You'll have to write an autobiography, some day."

Ira was trying to reach Nana's tea trolley in a manner that would soon send him flip-flopping over the arm of the couch, and my tea with it in the attempted rescue. I mentally wondered where 'four children and hoping for more' was going to allow time for an autobiography, let alone something worth putting in it.

"My biography is in my children."

And maybe that's the answer. Abraham Lincoln said he owed all that he was to his mother.

Why do we strive for recognition? Why would so many look at the above quote and say, "That isn't true, that isn't fair, that shouldn't be!"? There are people everywhere, wanting to make their lives count. But they are not willing to be hidden.

Hid with Christ in God. Christ Himself is hidden. Col 3:3 For ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God.

So then... is it beneath us to be hidden also?

Sunday, September 28, 2008

What I Could not Sully

I was on the road that led from the palace. It was a narrow street, cobbled in gold, edged by a dirt verge that might have grown something if it were not thronged so often by multitudes eager to see their beloved prince. The milling crowds craned their necks and strained their eyes. Finally the expectant babble rose to shouts of welcome and joy.

The king was coming.

He came on foot, slowly, pressed, but not impeded by the crowd, his gentle looks being received with the depths of gratitude and devotion from the hearts he touched with his gaze.

He was dressed simply in a white garment, but the whiteness of the white was such that it shone, and the cleanest snow on the brightest day would have seemed dull in comparison.

The crowds were not frenzied, but they were throwing at him things that symbolized their worship, their praise, their devotion. Everyone was doing it. These things pelted his garment and fell to the ground at his feet.

It was expected.

He was worthy.

Suddenly I felt slapped in the face with my own disgrace. All I had was the mud I was standing on. How had I come here? What was I doing here, standing here, wanting to see his face – with nothing! Even had I left, I could not have returned with anything worthy of this man. What was I doing, standing here, in his path, with nothing but my own miserable face betraying my wretchedness? I had nothing I could make good enough for his majesty. My unworthiness forced my gaze away from his. I could not look in his face; not with nothing but filth.

I had failed him.

He came onward, and kneeling on the ground I grasped fistfuls of the mud and threw with the masses. The mud pelted the hem of his garment and fell to the cobbled street beneath his feet – my pathetic attempt at praise, at worship. Worship – that with which heaven resounded with such golden glory and holy perfection.

Suddenly I saw what others beside me were casting at those beautiful, beautiful clothes. I gaped. Stones! Pebbles! Common, lowdown, vulgar dirt! Disgusting, despicable gravel! My rage rose. How dare this be offered to this worthiness, this majesty, this beauty?

Almost as if in a dream in slow motion, the cries of adulation faded and I watched clod after clod of dirty, common filth splatter his garments and fall to the ground. I despised myself; with vehemence and hatred and withering scorn, I despised myself. How dare I? Yet like a machine I continued the motions.

It was expected.

He was worthy.

Abruptly, my gaze froze in shock on his garment as I watched the muck that represented all I had to offer deflect off that whiteness.

It left no stain.

The sight slammed home the revelation that had been hidden from me: nothing I did could sully that purity.

Absolutely nothing I did could sully that purity.

He was receiving not the gift, but the giving.

©2007 Kim Blight

sul•ly verb, -lied, -ly•ing, noun, plural -lies.
–verb (transitive)
1. to soil, stain, or tarnish.
2. to mar the purity or luster of; defile: to sully a reputation.
–verb (intransitive)
3. to become sullied, soiled, or tarnished.

Monday, August 25, 2008

The Ground

The pillar stands up straight and tall, in one particular spot, usually in prominence and majesty, but the ground is everywhere.

I Timothy was written, Paul said "...that thou mayest know how thou oughtest to behave thyself in the house of God, which is the church of the living God, the pillar and ground of the truth."

It is striking how much of this behaviour detailed in I Timothy is not in the Sunday service, but in the community during the week and in one's family. Serving the church is not being there for services, but being there for people. It is not making the service run smoothly, but running smoothly with people in God's service.
You cover this ground when visiting people, when helping them in practical ways, by being hospitable.
The exemplary churchwoman (The New Testament Proverbs 31!) should be ..."Well reported of for good works; if she have brought up children, if she have lodged strangers, if she have washed the saints' feet, if she have relieved the afflicted, if she have diligently followed every good work." This sort of woman cared for the church and in need was cared for by the church.

It's something to aim for!

Friday, August 8, 2008

The King's Business

Once in a while you come across a thought provoking verse in a mundane passage, and this is one of them.
1Ch 4:21 The sons of Shelah the son of Judah were, Er the father of Lecah, and Laadah the father of Mareshah, and the families of the house of them that wrought fine linen, of the house of Ashbea,
:22 And Jokim, and the men of Chozeba, and Joash, and Saraph, who had the dominion in Moab, and Jashubi-lehem. And these are ancient things.
:23 These were the potters, and those that dwelt among plants and hedges: there they dwelt with the king for his work.

There they dwelt with the king for his work.

An ancient family that was known for its fine work, did peaceful productive things, and lived in a humble cultivated place. But they dwelt with the king for his work.

Do I dwell with the King for His work?

Tuesday, March 25, 2008