Friday, April 2, 2010

A Little More About Broken to Breathless

The title of my blog came to me -- well, I don't know when, but I definitely know how. It was Divinely inspired. Now, I don't mean some bright light, angelic chorus-type inspired, but I do mean God gave it to me.  Maybe, as I sat considering the idea of "blogging" it came to me; then again, maybe it always was. The point is, I have always, for as long as I can remember, felt broken. And somedays, when I forget the great price with which I have been redeemed, I still do.

When I was very young someone I loved deeply and trusted completely broke me, hurt me beyond what I could repair.  Oh, I tried for years -- rebellion, denial, "walls," but no matter what I did, it never fixed anything.  I was well into my 20s when I realized the person who damaged and betrayed me had moved on, was living their life with no thought for the past.  Now, maybe this person had made their peace, maybe not, but either way it was me I needed to answer for.  I sought out a "normal" life -- not such a bad idea, right?  Wrong.  Despite years of Christian influences I attempted it on my own; I should have known God was lovingly drawing me back to Him.  This was no open rebellion; I didn't hate God, I was just self-sufficient.  Silly, silly Girl.  What is it the Bible says?  "Whoever trusts in his own mind is a fool, but he who walks in wisdom will be delivered." (Prov. 28:26)

I had it all, though -- a steady job, a husband, two children, a life that, from the other side of the street seemed normal; things were all fixed!  Truth was, my marriage was a disaster, my children were my everything, and I was still broken.  The end to my marriage came suddenly, painfully and publicly.  I almost lost my house; I was struggling emotionally and financially.  My husband's bitterness was putting me through one legal hoop after another.  My daughter was withdrawing; my son was testing the limits of "teen independence."  My father-in-law was ill.  I was broken, but this time for good!

I finally surrendered, I mean really gave up.  Stopped struggling to fix things and people, stopped figuring which of my plans would be best for God to follow.  I finally looked to the skies and said, "Lord, it's yours.  What ever it is, use it."  Just three years later, my son got into trouble with the law -- big trouble, lots of trouble, chronic trouble -- with no desire whatsoever to repent.  I cried; I felt responsible, I blamed.  I still struggle each day to trust God in this, but I'm not broken!  The past few years have been no less trying than the ones before -- rebellious children, hurtful words, severed relationships, sickness and death.  As long as I surrender all I have to God, for His use, for His glory, the future holds no brokenness for me (Romans 8:28).  In fact, it may just leave me breathless.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Guess That's Why There's Chocolate and Vanilla

"Sweet Caroline...Bump, bum, bum.  Good times never seem so good..."  Aah, Neil Diamond.  Who doesn't love good soft rock?  BLECH!

If there ever was a brand of music that truly made my skin crawl, it was "soft rock."  The type of music that was piped into every elevator, grocery store and on every telephone "hold" line in the US during the '8os and '90s.  I know there are more "soft rock artists" (Is it even possible to use those words in collaboration?) than anyone would care to speculate, but Neil Diamond had forever been, and will forever be "The Crown Prince of Soft Rock!"  Now I'm sure Mr. Diamond is a great guy, but his music in particular, brings to the back of my throat a vile, burning feeling I usually only experience when I have foolishly inflicted upon myself a semi-lethal combination of undigested latte, nuclear wings, and power walking in ninety-degree heat.

When I hear a Neil Diamond song, nothing good can come of it; immediately the things that come to mind are the awkwardness of seventh grade, and Barry Manilow -- sort of a word association thing, only with really white, crooning "boy toys" in circulation-stopping polyester and their desperate cougar disciples.  I think of my best friend and I, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, singing into our hairbrushes and knowing, even at that time, we were hopelessly pathetic creatures who, in just a few short years would be going "stag" to our college senior formals.  I am compelled to remember my Dorothy Hamill haircut, zits, and those incredibly large eyeglasses that made my face look like I was wearing the latest concept designs for the Hubble Telescope.  By God's grace, my retinas never did burst into flame in direct sunlight.

Even in my adult years "the Jazz Singer" has developed a history all his own, invoking wretched mental images of drunken firefighters, some with severe flatulence disorders, raising their glasses and spitting out obscenely altered lyrics to "Song Sung Blue."  As I stood by the coffee pot in work the other day, the hair on the back of my neck began to stand up and my stomach began to churn before I realized someone had tuned into a soft rock station.  "Neil Diamond brings back some great memories for me," (or something like that) a co-worker cooed.  My face immediately twisted as if I'd chugged a bottle of ReaLemon.  "Huh?" I blurted.  "Yeah, at my other job, on Sunday mornings, the place would be quiet, except for this one guy who would play Diamond.  It was so peaceful; it would be a good day if we were listening to Diamond."