Obedience

I'd wager that each of us, growing up, fantasizes about the freedom of adulthood; I did. When I'm grown, I promised myself, no one will ever tell me what to do again.

Here I am, almost forty, and I find I've got more people trying to tell me what to do than ever. I find, too: I don't handle it well.

One of my middle-school teachers (the most ruthless paddler on the hall) told me to stop biting my nails, once. I blinked against the red spots and, leaning forward, said in a shaky voice: "They're my nails, and I'll bite them if I feel like it." He never said another word about it; we both knew he didn't want my daddy after him.

Looking back, I know it was a decent place to be, under my daddy's roof and authority. He wasn't (isn't) perfect, but he cared about right and wrong. He told me: if he found out I'd done wrong at school, he'd whip me at home, but if I was wronged at school or anywhere else, he'd have my back. He was and is an intimidating sort; I walked a fairly straight line, back then, but didn't worry about bullies in any form. 

I worry about bullies a great deal, as an adult, and I have this desire to call them out: to say, over and over, I saw (heard, read) that, and it was hurtful. It hurt. It hurt me, or it hurt someone else, and I refuse to pretend it's okay or didn't happen; I don't care who you are. I don't care how believable your sheep's clothing.

"You start a lot of shit," my husband said, and his words stung.

"I don't," I said. "I respond to a lot of shit."

"You make things worse," he said. 

And he's right. My spiritual gift is mercy, and I see myself as painfully honest: a defender, an avenger, a voice for those judged, cornered, pressured, bullied, overpowered, and/or overwhelmed, but--if I'm painfully honest with myself (for a change)--I can't think of a time I've gotten the response I've sought, which has always been: "I'm sorry I hurt you or someone else." 

I don't know how to let things roll off my back. I don't know how to refrain from speaking out, and I don't know how to speak out effectively, so I'm trying to ignore the repeat offenders. I haven't "unfriended" any of my facebook friends, but I've stopped "following" a lot of them. I've also stopped visiting the blogs of those whose words I find discouraging, hurtful, or offensive.

I love the Lord and seek to obey Him: HIM, not Him according to other people. Experience has taught me: those who have my best interest at heart will encourage me to seek His face, not try to tell me what His face looks like. (Both my husband and my pastor have my best interest at heart; I'm blessed.)

I like what Euripedes wrote: "Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing." I also like what Jesus said: "Seek, and ye shall find" (Matthew 7:7). I trust God and know I can go straight to the source of Him and His Word. I hope you know the same: that you walk freely in Christ, that you are free.

On Discouragement. And Santa Claus.

I don't know why I blog-interrupt myself unless it's that sometimes I open the floodgates, and it feels so good to release what hurts that I don't want to stop.

Several people have had things to say about my word for the year, and I should say first of all: if you're kind enough to care that you may have hurt me on facebook or in the blogosphere, it probably wasn't you.

And it wasn't just one person, anyway, or regarding one topic. I could compile a list of all the posts I allowed to disrupt my inner peace last year, and guaranteed: your mouth would hang plumb open.

It's my problem. I have an anger problem. I have a getting-over-it problem.

I've been trying so hard to pray and work it out, and it's probably even more complicated than I realize or can articulate, but I'll tell you right now: I'm incredibly apt to judge a judger. So sad. So sinful.

Also, I think what we say and how we say it matters. I'll never utter or write a word for which I won't take personal responsibility, and I'm not going to lie: I think everyone should operate that way.

And then there's this: unless I've sought your advice, or unless you're one of my trusted advisors (and you'll know if you are!), I would prefer that you not tell me what to do. Tell me what you do, by all means. Tell me a story, your story, any story. But don't tell me what my story should be.

So. Santa Claus. I read this post before Christmas, and I'm not going to link to it or name the blogger, but she was writing against the whole Santa Claus thing, and it was even more than that. It was a call to action: a "mothers stand with me" type thing.

And you know, my own pastor's against the Santa Claus thing, and it doesn't bother me. He doesn't make me feel pressured to do things differently. He doesn't make me feel judged. Upon reading this blogger's post, on the other hand, I felt more discouraged than I've felt in a long time.

I wanted to put my head down and cry. Am I feeling convicted? I asked myself.

And no.

My children know that Christmas is Jesus's birthday. Charleigh played with our nativity set all season; in fact, I think "Joe" lost another body part. We participated in the Bethlehem Walk. At our church, the girls blew out candles on a birthday cake for Jesus, and we attended Christmas Eve service. And--as he does every year--my daddy read the Christmas story to us straight from his Bible.

Our Santa Claus works in a copy shop just down the street. We visit him throughout the year, and he passes the girls little cards that say: "Santa caught me being good." My children were the only ones in the copy shop when we visited in December; Santa changed into his fancy clothes just for them. He held them and loved on them for the longest time. It was beautiful. I flat-out refuse to believe our Santa has stolen anything from anyone...including Jesus.

And you know something else? True conviction of the Lord never makes me want to give up or quit. True conviction of the Lord never makes me cuss under my breath. True conviction of the Lord never makes me want to punch out a sister.

Now, let me be careful and clear here: it's not my place to judge my sister's heart or intentions in writing that post. I'm not bold enough to say that post wasn't of the Lord or that He didn't intend those words for someone else. I will even grant that He may change my heart over the Santa Claus thing down the road. God doesn't change us all at once, you know; if He did, our heads would pop off.

All I'm saying is: I allowed that blogger's words to discourage me during this season of my life and that--especially since it wasn't the first or only time I've felt discouraged by them, recently--I don't intend to return to her blog.

Ignore.

Jesus's Birthday Cake

Christmas Eve Service

Yes, there's an elephant in there. There was also a tin man, at one point, and a police officer.

Ignore

My one word for 2013 was peace, and I hold myself responsible for failing to achieve it, and the means by which I most allowed its disruption was probably facebook but possibly the blogosphere. I guess when it comes right down to it, I've lacked the intelligence, the discipline, or both to solve the problem up to this point, but I'm working on it, and I'm thinking that admitting I have a problem is the first step in my solving it.

Truth is, I can't handle some of the things people share. Truth is, I have long, drawn-out arguments with people in my mind. Truth is, I allow the words of other people to provoke and anger me.

My problem with people's words--no matter what they say--is just that: my problem, and I'm the only person who can solve my problem. As of this very moment, I pledge: when I feel angry over someone's words, I'm not going to respond with words; I'm going to respond by unfollowing that person on facebook or in the blogosphere. Then I'm going to dedicate whatever new head space I have to the Lord and the people right in front of me.

My word for 2014: ignore.

I feel happier already.