. . . tattooed . . .

“Of course, it was painful!”

“Sharp and  continuous from beginning to end– for twenty minutes. And worth every minute of it,” Ahnna, our granddaughter adamantly confirmed of her recent tattoo on the back of her right arm.  She has joined the ranks of a quarter of the U.S. population ages 18-50 making a statement with a unique tattoo.

Once thought of as a deviant behavior during the Hippie movement, today, a tattoo adorning a place on the body, is an acceptable form of expression. In fact, it was the movement of the 1960’s that ushered in this somewhat lost art form of past decades.

The method of marking skin with colored ink and pigment is a centuries’ old tradition in most cultures. There is evidence of mummified bodies with tattoos dating to the third and fourth centuries BC. Chinese marked their criminals; ancient Egyptians used tattooing as a method of healing. Other cultures have used it in religious worship. Early ship owners carrying slaves to America painted them for identification should they escape. In the earlier centuries, the skin was cut, and pigment was rubbed into the raw areas.  

Tattooing is the latest form of “outsider art” to rock the world of fine art. And today the global tattoo industry is well over 50 billion dollars annually and growing rapidly.

And then one day, I discovered I was tattooed!

Permanent markings of abuse, divorce, rejection and unforgivingness stained my early years.  I was never quite certain of my parents’ unconditional love. Even though I was loved fully and completely by Tom, the insecurities of  my family of origin haunted me even into my 40’s. Those cuts were painted dark. 

I remember the quiet morning, reading in Isaiah. Suddenly the entire room exploded in a soft brightness.  I had just read verses 15 and 16 of Chapter 49. “Can a woman forget her nursing child that she should not have compassion on the daughter of her womb? Yes, they may forget, yet will I not forget you. . . behold, I have engraved you, indelibly imprinted (tattooed) a picture on the palm of each of my hands.” Amplified

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What an absolutely astounding declaration of love!

Surely I had read that passage before.  Isaiah is assuring the children of Israel that the Lord God will indeed never forget them after being in captivity in Babylon for seventy years.  But these words were personal this day, a promise for me. I quickly read those verses in every translation I had in the house. Sobbing, I was certain my name and picture were tattooed on my Lord’s palms.

The process of multitudes of tiny needles piercing the epidermis into the dermis is more painful on the palms. Tattoo artists often try to dissuade a client from having one drawn there. After all, the skin is pricked between 50 and 3,000 times per minute by the needles during this process.

Easter is coming. . .

. . . the season we ponder the way and the reason we are given new life– the whys. Roman crucifixion was gruesome and excruciating; Jesus willingly stretched out his hands on the cross while the nails were driven, and my name was engraved.  Oh, the pain . . . 

We can suggest this is all figurative language written  long ago; I prefer to believe the promise given me.  I can see my face tattooed here on His hand.  Can you see yours? The disciple Thomas made his boast that he would not believe Jesus had arisen from the tomb unless he could “put his finger where the nails were.” John 20:25. Jesus tells Thomas (verse 27), “put your finger here, see my hands . . . stop doubting and believe.” 

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son; that whosoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.” John 3: 16 

Always on his palms–forever in His heart,

. . . tattooed . . . NOW. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

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. . . with a sacred scar . . .

“Begin praying My compassion for your father.” The whispered words jolted my quiet morning thoughts as I looked out over the mountains of East Tennessee . “I want you to love him as I do.”

I said NO.

For months,  I repeatedly said no.

After all, I had plenty of reasons not to pray that prayer.  I wanted no part of loving this man.  I was taking care of his physical needs. Wasn’t that enough? After leaving the scene of  family years before, he had not been a part of  my siblings’ lives for over 35 years. When I was approached by one of his sisters, I agreed to initiate his disability monies and place him in assisted living quarters. For 20 years, I played the role as a distant caregiver. I didn’t want him too close to me.

Scared . . .  most of us have been.

Scarred . . . most of us are.

I count eight scars on my right hand and fingers—tattoos of all my chopping in the kitchen. Tom says I am dangerous with a sharpened knife; he makes sure they are never too sharp.  My oldest scar is on my foot; I stepped off our porch onto a broken coke bottle when I was three years old . . . a prominent scar. After seventy years, the result of those ten stitches is clearly evident. I have no memory of that painful experience, but the scar reminds me daily that it happened.

Scar . . . a physical reminder of an injury or surgery.   These scars fade without any effort. Plastic surgery is seldom needed to cover them or change them unless they are disfiguring. Tattoo artists . . . tattooed . . .often can help change the scar into a beauty mark.

Scar. . . a result of the healing process. Without healing, the wound is evident, always there; without healing, there will never be a scar. Forever fresh, open, painful.

And so, I reluctantly  yielded to the Lord’s gentle, continued nudges to pray His compassion for my father. Stiff, generic words at first prayed religiously.

Emotional wounds. Now that’s a different process.  Many of us live with wounds that need to heal.  For me, there was an ugly, painful wound hiding behind forced smiles — one  that scared joy and laughter from the heart of a young girl.

My father’s abuse took the sunshine away, and I was no longer free to be a happy, content young girl.  My parents divorced soon after, and I entered my teenage years. I was scared, hiding the sad, dirty wound. I learned to cover it well—my Pollyanna personality enabled me to push through the pain.

With Tom’s encouragement, a journey of healing began. I was open to counsel; I read articles and books; Scriptures reinforced Biblical truths of my worth as a person while Tom’s love and support have forever supported me.  For years, I healed, and eventually, I had my scar. (The Wounded Heart (1995) by Dr. Dan Allender was especially helpful.)

“I sought the Lord and he answered me; He delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to Him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.” Psalm 34: 4,5.

Just today on Facebook, a sweet Filipino friend shared that her 5 year old son tearfully met her with the words of another 5-year old boy at school “I won’t play with you  because your skin is brown . . .

. . . wounded . . . there will be a scar. . .

A precious friend in Europe is sleepless—for years— 70 years she has been sleepless. She was wounded and scared as she kept herself awake to protect her little sister from being abused . . .

. . . still scared. . . there is no scar . . .

Look!

By changing the order of these letters in scarred and scared, we have the word—sacred. I learned to value my scar, the thing that scared me most—I valued it enough to let it change me; I accepted it.  My experience became a stepping stone, a gradual, gentle ascent on my journey to Now. My scar will forever be a part of who I am.

My scar is a part, only a small part, of my story. It defines me . . . not in a way to ignore or to cover it—but to own it. It is mine. While I do not, nor cannot, celebrate the memory or the experience, I can celebrate that it has enabled me to be . . . well,  me.

heart-scars

LynnDove.com–may be subject to copyright

. . . sacred . . . something set apart, precious . . . worthy of protection . . .

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it.” Isaiah 43:14,15

No, I cannot love my father as a daughter loves her strong, wise father. But in a way, it is much more than that. I learned to love him as Jesus loved him.  I spoke at his funeral in February 1998, sharing this journey of God’s command to a sacred love. He is forgiven by His heavenly Father, and by me, a scarred daughter.

Brief, forceful words of a Colonel to a Sergeant in a scene in Black Hawk Down, the movie released in 2001 of the Battle of the Bahara Market in Mogadishu, Somalia, of October 1993, speak loudly:

Colonel:  Get into that truck and drive.                                                                                          Sergeant:   But I’m shot, Colonel.                                                                                                        Colonel:  Everybody’s shot, get in and drive.

Everyone’s shot–we’re wounded. The important question is . . . am I in the process of being healed? Will I develop a beautiful, sacred scar? One that gives glory and praise for His healing in my life . . . in your life. . .

“For I am convinced and sure of this very thing, that He who began a good work in me –in you– will continue . . . developing that good work and perfecting and bringing it to full completion in me – – in you. . . Philippians 1:6 Amplified Bible

Celebrate that you are you, defined yes, with your own personal scars,

. . . becoming sacred . . . –

 

 

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. . . in the storm . . .

I remember the day . . . some parts not so clearly. But I do remember the storm. Strong March winds rocked the vanilla colored Volkswagon as we headed up the mountain. Dark clouds filled the sky, and pelting rain added to the already frightening moment.

“We’re not going to make it,” I silently feared. Only two hours earlier, Tom and I had breathed our marriage vows to one another, and were off on our first adventure. NOW a storm threatened to destroy our immediate joy. I was scared. Certainly I had been in other rain storms, going with someone, somewhere. But never had I been so excited in the middle of a big storm with someone I had only begun to trust.

Timidly, I watched my very new husband manage the wind and the heavy rain and wondered . . . wondered if we would be safe.

That was 55 years ago–today, March 14.

Storms rage often and everywhere. There are over 100,000 thunderstorms in the U.S. every year. Then there are the dust storms, the sand storms, wind storms, ice storms. Add to that the tornadoes, hurricanes, and tsunamis that bring havoc.

Today –again–we were driving to a get-away, secret place. And again, a storm happened in almost the same scenario as fifty five years ago. But I didn’t wonder today if we would make it. I knew this man beside me would manage the vehicle with the wind, rain and winding roads as diligently as he could. I trust him completely. Tom and I have a secret. We have chosen to walk this journey with the third person in our union, the Lord Jesus.

“What time I am afraid, I will trust in the Lord.” Psalm 56:3

So many storms these years–all kinds. It’s the tearful storms, the pain storms, the hurtful storms, the medical storms that can’t be managed or maneuvered easily alone or even together. The ‘nothing is working right’ storm. How do we survive those? It’s a storm Tom and I right now–find ourselves.

Storms are more easily endured when three walk together through the difficult times. “A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.” Ecclesiastes 4:12 (Amplified.)

John tells of an incident in chapter 6 when the disciples suddenly found themselves surrounded by a massive storm. Strong winds caused high waves in the darkness, and they were afraid. Jesus walks through the storm to get to them, to bring them to safety. “It is I. Don’t be afraid.”

I choose to believe that he is walking in the storm towards us this day and reaching his hand to save us from drowning. Even when the mud is too deep, making it impossible to lift one foot after the other, His presence is sensed even in the roar of the winds.

My regular readers know that I have been writing of this storm we find ourselves these past months; this is where we are. I must remind myself often that He is here, in the NOW, in the boat with us. Therefore, we continue to walk through these days with joy and confidence that God is indeed working His purpose out for our good and His glory.

And if you are going through a storm NOW, then know that He is coming to you in the dark night and affirms, “I am here. Trust me, Do not be afraid.”

. . . trusting . . .

(Rain was pounding loudly on the roof last night. I went to sleep, comforted–and didn’t post this blog 🙂

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. . . fearless?. . .

The view from my kitchen window looked more like spring than January.  Families of squirrels  skipped playfully in the warm sunshine.  We were enjoying days of rare temperatures the first week of a new year. These furry rodents were taking advantage of  moments in the sun. They were everywhere, running through piles of fall’s left over leaves. You could almost hear their happiness.

Minutes later, I was on the phone and screamed in my caller’s ear. A red tailed hawk flew past the window with one of those playful unsuspecting squirrels dangling from its grip.  He stopped to rest on a nearby tree branch with his fresh lunch catch. The victim’s tail wiggled slowly as I snapped a picture on my phone.  (If you increase the size, you can see the tail laying to the right of the hawk.)

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I know. I know— survival of the fittest. The happy squirrel didn’t have a chance. The red-tailed hawk, flying 120 miles an hour to catch lunch he has spotted from 100 feet  is guaranteed success.

Is there a lesson here?  Somewhat similar to  being caught in the spider’s web, but different.  (see . . . caught . . . ) I have pondered the difference. A moth, a butterfly, wasp–well, they get too close to a ‘do-not-enter area’ of the web, and life is over for the unsuspecting victim.  But a happy squirrel is living within his own territory.  This unprotected soft rodent is an easy target for the sharp eyes and talons of a hawk.

Wonder why a hawk doesn’t grab an armadillo?

Nine-banded armadillo

The hawk has few predators. Neither does the armadillo. The only predator for this nine banded rodent is a man with a gun or a fast car.  This is nightly road-kill on our country roads in Tennessee.

“Be well-balanced, be vigilant and cautious at all time; for that enemy of yours, the devil, roams around like a lion roaring, seeking someone to seize upon and devour.” 1 Peter 5:8 (Amplified)

Often we are as innocent and free as squirrels, romping in the winds and warmth of the NOW. . . and then. . . quickly snatched, captured. I watch the hawk with the now placid, once playful victim—barely a wiggle. This predator doesn’t eat its prey quickly; it subdues it or squeezes it just to the point of suffocation –and then devours each piece slowly.

For a moment I witness the large predator with the small squirrel in its grip, and I see me struggling to be free. The Hawk that devours me, you—always comes with warning.  After all, a roar is not silent. Too often, I am deaf to the loud signs. Till it’s too late.  Potentially hazardous talons of busy-ness, self pity, apathy, judgment and other devious hooks squeeze life from me.

Can I, can you live free, in the NOW?  Without fear of the Hawk, but yet protected as the armadillo. The armor of the particular species living around us can deflect a bullet.  But I don’t want to be covered with hardness.

Me thinks it’s a difficult journey—to walk in fearless trust. The next verse after the warning to be on the look-out for the enemy instructs one to be firm in faith. Other words in verse 9 encourage us to be rooted, established, strong, immovable, determined.  (Amplified)

WOW.  I can live as a squirrel in an armadillo’s covering. 

. . .fearless. . . in faith.

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. . . content in the impossibles . . .

I was terrified. One of my greatest fears is failing. Being disappointed in ‘me’.

So when a friend artist invited me to attend a painting class last weekend, I laughed, “I cannot draw a straight line. I drew stick people and little chickens for my children for years. That’s the extent of my creative drawing ability.”

She insisted, “You will have fun; I know you can do this.”

Inwardly, I cried, no, no. You don’t understand. I can’t handle more failure.  I will disappoint you and me. Why should I put myself in a position to fail. . . I need to stay safe. I was firm in my arguments to her.

She smiled, looking a bit stubborn, “I will not let you fail.”

Me, not fail. Now, that’s impossible. At this time in my life when I feel a failure in many areas, why, indeed, would I invite another one? Why would I intentionally add another  failure to that growing heap?

Fragments of happier days lived with a sense of worth and purpose shatter around me like dry leaves. The brokenness of our family colors most days black, a dark midnight black; it screams of my failure as a mother. I can’t even write a weekly blog. No, no, I will not add another defeat to that list.

BUT. . . I went.  Anticipating defeat.

Why?  Maybe there was a slight hope that I could do something I never imagined possible. No. I went simply because of Joyce’s words to me, “I will not let you fail.”

 

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I compare my first canvas painting to life at the moment. I believed totally it was impossible for me to have accomplished anything recognizable! I learned something through this. Which is really what life’s experiences are about.  Right? I did something I thought impossible. How completely freeing on this journey. I was overjoyed.  I realized an enormous victory!

Isn’t this what Jesus whispers to me, to you, “I will not let you fail. I am with you. I will never let you go. . .” Countless promises.  I read the words of hope, while negating each one with doubt. I had even  forgotten my life verse these past months: “I am convinced and sure of this very thing, that He who began a good work in me will continue and continue until the day of His return—developing that good work, perfecting and bringing it to full completion in me.” Philippians 1:6 Amplified.

God is looking for those with whom He can do the impossible—what a pity that we plan only the things that we can do ourselves.  A.W. Tozer

Surely there are failures in life.  It is how we see and use them that matters.  Charles Krauthammer, physician, columnist and news contributor, paralyzed from his waist down for all of his adult life never let the impossible stop him.  He is a great example that any of us can accomplish the possible, even when many impossibles surround us.

A fear of failure paralyzes me. Maybe you. Fear blinds one to new possibilities.  I needed this Snowman!  I learned NOT that “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” Philippians 4:13. This verse is often misused. It is a Greek idiom that means being content in any and every circumstance, not that I, nor you, can do those feats we are not gifted or equipped to do.  Paul is in prison as he writes this, and he affirms he can be content  because the Lord has promised to give him the strength he needs for whatever is before him. God will sustain him in the failures and heartbreaks of life.

This snowman whispered, “Barb, take your eyes off your failures. Embrace the goodness in life for the many, many possibilities in front of you. The secret is in being confident that the Lord gives strength for the journey NOW . . .”

. . .painting contentedly. . .

 

 

 

 

 

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. . . caught . . .

A recent garden guest has been quiet, unassuming— not disruptive in any way.  For weeks. In fact, we hardly knew she was around.  But there she was! Near the entrance of the front door.  Lurking, plotting to catch other visitors in her inconspicuous lethal strands. 20180831_062452 (1)

A large female yellow orb garden spider set up residence in early summer and lived quite comfortably until mid October. She produced  2 sets of egg sacs containing thousands of little ones and faithfully guarded them.  This species is considered beneficial for our gardens, so I deliberately allowed her long stay.  I didn’t mind this silent intruder near the porch; her daily routines intrigued me.  As long as she snared flies, mosquitoes and wasps in her enticing grid,  she was welcomed.   I often observed her as she quickly wrapped and prepared each victim for dinner. She munched each bite with deliberate detail; she relished each insect.

But when I discovered she had lured one of my butterflies in her subtle web, I was furious.  No, no!  You can’t have that one.

Not my butterflies!  I wanted to post a sign at the butterfly bush warning of impending danger.

My last post three months ago expressed the freedom and beauty learned in the struggle of the butterfly.  Shortly after, I found myself caught in such a web stronger than this spider’s web.  The strands made by spiders are five times stronger than piano wire.  By weight, they are stronger than steel.

We are often blind to the web right near our own front door!   The tentacles that began to grasp me— quietly, unsuspectingly, even easily, were more cunning than those of our garden guest.  And stronger!

I wanted to run for little scissors and cut the butterfly loose that evening.  That would be impossible.  Tom said it was already dead because all life was squeezed from it immediately as venom was secreted when the binding process began.

Traps are baited for us at every turn, every day.   Fear, doubt, distrust, pain, pride, busyness, lust, negative words and thoughts–oh, the list is endless and different for each one.  How quickly we can be charmed into an unsuspecting web. Our GPS failed to warn of impending dangers.

The analogy of the spider’s web and our webs stops here. As impossible as it is for an insect to free itself from the invisible web, it is possible for you and me to be set free.

“In my anguish  I cried to the Lord, and he answered by setting me free.” Psalm 118:5. There is a process in binding one up, slowly, slowly when we are “caught”, and there is a process in being set free.  Much is involved in being set free, yes.  Beginning the journey of release from being the prey to freedom takes prayer and action.

“My eyes are ever on the Lord, for only he will release my feet from the snare.” Psalm 25:15

A broken heart in a family situation, coupled with fear crippled me these weeks.  Added to this or perhaps because of— a physical condition due to my Lyme history caused my auto immune system to crash.  Too many sticky silken threads, and I was caught . . .

I love these words from Ginny Owens, a beautiful Christian music writer and singer:

We meet God in our suffering and either learn to trust Him or turn our hearts away from Him. As  I cried out to God with fear and uncertainty, He gave me more of Himself. I didn’t need to have the answers anymore. 

 Listen to her song, “I’ll Walk through the valley if you want me to  https://youtu.be/aaXxwFpavj4

Perhaps you are currently caught in a web, held hostage, wrapped tightly.  I do not allow Satan credit for orchestrating the sticky strands of mistakes, choices, habits or even a physical issue, to entrap me —or you.  But he does delight when a believer is caught and is unable to live in joy and confidence. He pulls the dangerous, delicate threads tighter, and often, we see no way out.

It is then we must discover a new GPS– Grace’s Present Sanctuary.  “God has said, I will not in any way fail you nor give you up nor leave you without support. I will not, I will not, I will not in any degree leave you helpless (no matter the strong web you find yourself–my words here in italics 🙂  nor forsake nor let you down. I will not relax my hold on you–surely not!” Hebrews 13: 5b,  Amplified.  I love, love, love that verse in this translation!

If you are currently ‘caught’, please reply. I am a bit experienced in untangling the threads.

Becoming  free . . .

 

 

 

 

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. . . struggling . . .

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