What's Right and in Whose Eyes?

Centuries ago someone said, “There but for the Grace of God, goes I”. Who first coined the phrase is often disputed; most attribute the quote to John Bradford.

As a little girl I wondered about that saying.

Did that mean that the Grace of God was better to me than to those who were living in awfully hard places? Why did anyone suffer, I wondered --- where was God's good Grace for them?

Later I came to understand Mr. Bradford's meaning in the phrase. He had looked upon prisoners being marched to their execution for a crime, and acknowledged through the words that he too was a sinner, he too had done great wrongs in his heart. And only by the grace of God was he not executed as well.

He realized he too deserved death, but the grace of God was allowing him life instead.

In Judges 19 – 21 there's a terrible but true story about injustice and death and cruelty and destruction. And the concluding words written at the end of the painful telling state, “In those days Israel had no king; everyone did as he saw fit.”

That's the end of the book --- the final words.

And I think to myself --- we've not come very far.

Today, it might read instead, “In these days the King is not honored; everyone does as they see fit.”

We've just come off the slopes of Mt. Elgon and my heart is colliding with my mind. Judges is still alive, the place where “everyone is doing as they see fit”. 

It's August as these words are being written. August on the mountain slopes is when Luhya boys are circumcised. It's their Passage into Manhood. The age of the boy may vary and the details are too grim to share here. But before the actual event, the boys walk along the roadways from village to village wearing beads and waving poms. They are sometimes covered in a powdery dust made from crushed millet and decorative head dresses might be worn. They're accompanied by older boys/young men who they themselves have endured the “passage”. Older boys carrying bottles of alcohol, it's a drunkards feast with knives and blood and rituals far from holy. (Christian Luyha people no longer participate in this practice.) They will inflict great pain on the boys using one knife for all --- it will “initiate” them. Some die. Afterwards the boys are forced to walk long distances, limping badly, hardly able to move yet required to walk, wearing an outer sheet wrapped round them, and carrying a small stick to prop on when needed. They'll walk through nearby towns, enduring more harrassments from older boys. It's insanely inhumane, but they are eager to endure, thinking it proves them to be “a man”.

It's overwhelming to think of, but while the boys parade about in the street the girls are secretly hidden away as they too are illegally circumcised... and I think of the last words in the book of Judges...“everyone did as he saw fit”.

In another land there are other knives used for other purposes. Recently a young person from my homeland shared with me their concern and confusion over why almost every woman they know has paid big dollars to have some part of her God-given body altered. Knives used by educated surgeons meant to restore youth or improve the ways the Creator apparently fell short. This is NOT being written to judge or even scold. It's just a wondering, and one shared by so many young people watching them and learning. The young are being taught... men can fix God's errors... And they are trying to figure out, “Is God really who people say He is, or not?”

But living in a land where too many work endless hours to fill stomachs, it sits sideways inside me, and silence is not an option. 

Someone recently shared with me they have a friend who doesn't believe there are really any hungry, fly-covered babies in this world. That the photos are all staged and the funds are instead filling pockets of clever marketers and corrupt companies. And that sits crossways on top of the other.

And I stumble long over these words.

How can it be ok for hungry babies to cry themselves to sleep, while others fill their pantries with too much? And how can it be that drunkards use knives to circumcise boys in one place while wealthy doctors use knives to re-create money-laden ladies in another place?

I'm not opposed to plastic surgery, NOT AT ALL --- instead I thank God for giving millions of patients the chance for reconstruction after breast-cancer, or repairing cleft lips on precious babies or repairing bodies mangled in car accidents or fires or abuse. God bless the surgeons that use their skills to repair and restore.

But, when the enemy has lied so strongly to a woman (or man) and convinced them that they need to look different than how the One who loves them most made them... I just get confused over it all. (and for any of my dear friends who might have had plastic surgery... I'm not coming in the side door trying to make a point to you. I honestly don't even know who has or has not. I don't have time or energy to notice. I promise).

Isn't the drunkard circumcising the boys just “doing what is right in his own eyes...?” And isn't the person spending money to alter how they look not because they need it, but because they have been lied to by society and the mirror and “the liar”... aren't they too just “doing what is right in their own eyes...?”

Are we really seeing the truth?

Are we willing to?

Not the truth according to anything written here... but the TRUTH according to the One over it all.

If it “seems right in our own eyes” does that really make it right?

I've just sat with women who have suffered in ways that words won't fit.

And the words stuck in my veins, “There but for the grace of God, goes i...”

In 2006 a land dispute broke out on this mountain. The atrocities inflicted on the families here are too dark to write about. Much like the story at the end of Judges. Some shared with me they had been able to run away during those hardest of days on the mountain. I asked, “Why didn't everyone run?” They shared, “If all you had was the land under your feet, and all you had to eat was grown on that land, if you were poor and had no where else to go, you had no choice.” Many of the eyes looking at me had seen monsters disguised as men --- and yet here they were smiling back at me. They've endured. They continue to tend the fields they bled on. They've buried their husbands under them. They've grown crops since those days, they've filled the stomachs of the little ones who survived. They've given birth since then. They have held the hurt inside until their hearts are near ready to explode over it all. And they ask, send someone who will teach us how we can forgive all this. My knees cave, my stomach rolls and lurches inside. Lord, surely there is another who should do this.

I've spent years learning about forgiveness, but...

But the wrongs i've forgiven others are kindergarten level compared to these.

Forgive the friend who lied about you, forgive the one who talked about you behind your back. Forgive the one who judged you hard and the one who dismissed your loyalty with rejection. Forgive the gossiper, the betrayer, the one who thinks themselves better and the one who makes jokes over your serious pursuit of the Father. The one who turned from you when you began your deepest obedience to Abba... and help me forgive myself Lord, for all the many ways I too have wronged others.

My pitious list of practiced, sincere forgivings feels shallow beside their deeply plowed anguishes.

But... It's not “me” they need, it's the One who “makes all things new”. He allows Himself to be carried about in our cracked, clay vessels. So my clay vessel will deliver HIM. And whether the thing that must be forgiven is deep or shallow, the enemy of our Lord cares not. He will torture and torment over the small just as effectively as he will the big.

My knees find the floor... often.

Truth is truth whether on the mountain slopes or in the valley.

But, we people, we can confuse each other over it can't we?

In a world where too many “do as they see fit”, there are gaping, weeping, wounds. And the only right answer is --- we need a King. We will die without a Savior. We are walking-dead because someone “did as they saw fit”. Hollywood makes movies about the walking-dead. But they're wrong, the walking-dead are not zombies as they portray them to be. They look like normal people on the outside --- but they've died inside. They don't eat the flesh of others, they eat beans and rice or steak and potatoes, but nothing they eat brings them new life. And the next blow comes at the hands of the “torturer” the one who will continue their nightmare as long as they are chained to unforgiveness.

Too many “did as they saw fit” --- and then the destroyer comes to torment further...

The former can only be changed by holding fast to God's TRUTH.

The latter can only be healed by one of those very truths ---- we must forgive.

There is no other way.

Whether the wound comes at the kindergarten level or the anguish climbs to the post-grad level ---- the answer remains the same.

We must Forgive... and then His Grace can flow.

Now as I pray and process, I find myself asking the question, “What seems right in your eyes donna, that the King wants to correct”?

If we think there is nothing ----- we are being fooled.

Jesus alone is blameless. But not us... not me.

It's a part of the brokenness of this world.

We move through the days and sleep through the nights ---- and then sometimes we remain asleep even in the day. Our eyes are closed... we are unable to see.

The old saying echoes inside --- “There but for the grace of God, goes i” and I feel my soul cry responding that there MUST be more. It comes from deep within.

“There but for the grace of God, goes I...”

His grace is too good for us. We don't deserve it.

If we've been given much, if we've suffered less, do we pause enough to wonder why?

Perhaps there's a great reason...

If the grace of God has kept us from deep, life-draining, nightmarish suffering ---- should we dare to allow ourselves to simply “do what is right in our own eyes”? Or should we run to the King thanking Him for His good graces over us and respond by asking ---- how can I best use the great grace you've given me?

There but for the grace of God, goes I...

---- but because of the grace of God, I will__________________.

we've a limited number of days to finish those words ------- oh Lord, open our eyes, and help us to do what is right in YOUR eyes.


©2014 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

... it is Mine to avenge... it is yours to forgive

As I stepped into the dimly lit room, she was there. 

Surrounding her were women, comforting, all huddled together and silent. 

They had canceled our weekly time of Bible study and prayer because one of the women had been taken to the hospital. The night before her husband had beaten her unconscious with a jambia (a heavy hoe) and then thrown water on her to revive her only to deliver more of the same. We were waiting to hear of the lady's condition, but we had come because we had been told there were two sick babies who needed help. I do miss my nurse sister when my inability faces what her abilities could handle. But God chooses who is where, and in the end, isn't it Him who is needed?

So when I ran from the car to the doorway, as if dodging rain was a possibility, I was shocked to find the room filled with ladies and children... and chickens. Pausing to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, I greeted each one, being tender as I shook hands and hugged. I knew she was likely among us, the one whose husband had brutalized her. But with these women, you can rarely tell who is walking wounded. They are strong and long-suffering, they persevere. 

It was cold, rain came hard on the tin roof above. Even the chickens were huddling inside. The ladies were bundled in blankets and scarves. Which one is she Lord? As we gently exchanged quiet greetings, the suffering hung like thick air in the room. Looking at each of their faces, I worked to find the wounded one. But my discernment found nothing. No sign. They each smiled timidly and hugged tightly. When one hurts here, they all do. I wondered why they were all there together... as if they were waiting. Perhaps she had not returned from the hospital yet. So I asked. “Who is the momma that was wounded last night? Are you waiting for her to return from the hospital?” Several answered, all in Swahili, Eve translated for me. “Mom, they knew you and dad would come so they have been waiting.” Oh my soul...

Then the one with the sweetest smile began taking off her blanket-wrap, and removing her sweater. Surely it could not be... Lord, she has the kindest eyes.

Her name is Valentine. She's young. Maybe in her twenties. She's the momma to Daisy, one of the prettiest little darlings in Kenya. Daisy is dearly loved by my Steve, and the feeling is certainly mutual. He gives her cookies every Friday, she lingers near him each week as he speaks with the men about Jesus. Valentine is married to a man who calls himself a pastor. He is NOT. He's been married 3 times before her and buried each of those wives. He's mean and selfish and loves to wound those weaker than him. Valentine has given him one child, a son. Daisy does not belong to him. And so he is mean to little Daisy. As she showed us what he had done to her, she told of the night before. When it had been so cold, the man had gotten up to remove Daisy's blanket and place it on “his” son. Daisy began to cry; too cold. When the little girl's cries disturbed him from returning to his sleep, he began yelling at the mother, blaming her for bringing the girl into his house. When Valentine tried to quiet the cold little Daisy, the man became enraged. The beating began. It lasted for hours. Daisy ran out into the night to hide. Neighbors knew of the man's temper. No one dared help her. When the sun came up, his ire subsided and he left.

In the slum, you survive or not. No 911 Emergency phone call is going to bring blue lights and justice.

And after the damage is done, the women will rally together to help each other. It's the picture of “mourn with those who mourn”. It's not polished or proper or carried in a pretty casserole dish. It's raw, and messy, and oh-so-real. This was the circle of ladies around me. The God of the Angel-Armies was near.

She showed me her arm. Her fore-arm had a big knot (possibly broken), it was warm to the touch and pained her greatly. All her arm and shoulder had been beaten badly. Her neck was scratched and swollen, he had tried to strangle her, her face had scratches as well. She quietly spoke in Swahili telling me something as she pointed to her breasts, I could only imagine what he had done to hurt her. She was pouring out her pain and grief, no translation was needed.

It struck me. Bruises and wounds will not show so easily on her beautiful brown skin. My pale skin would show mark for mark if I had been beaten as she had. But her skin was only the slightest bit altered, and yet the beating she had taken from the heavy jambia had done great damage. The depth of her pain was concealed. But it was there.

She gushed it out. She knew I could not understand what she was saying. But she needed to say it, she needed to begin releasing what had been beaten into her. The women around her reacted with moans and tears. They were loving her well.

When the wave of suffering expressed subsided, I began praying. What else could have been the right response. I needed the One who loved her most to come near, very near. We needed the One who could bring justice to this ruthless, unfair place to hear. She needed the Mighty One to hold her, she needed the Shepherd. I was just a daughter beside her, we needed our Daddy-God. As I prayed I asked, “Oh God, what would you have us do, how would you have us respond, we trust you to do your work in this, but show us what is our part.” The prayer lasted long, the wailing was deep.

In a country where domestic violence is common, and calling the police only makes things worse, there is only One place to run to for justice. Abba.

As the wave of prayer subsided, the whisper in my soul was crystal clear, “Guide her to forgive, teach her more about forgiveness...” WHAT? Silently I screamed, “God, surely you did not just tell me to speak about forgiveness to this wounded momma. Oh God, it's too fresh, look at the marks. This man is cruel beyond words. Oh God, let me minister to her about forgiveness next week... today it is all too fresh.” But His guidance came full force, clear as a mountain stream on a crisp fall day in my beloved Georgia. “donna, obey me now, the wounds she received last night will be small compared to the wounds she will receive internally if she does not hand it all to me and forgive...” 

 

How can I put into words the cliff I felt under my toes at that moment.

To look into the eyes of a woman who had just been tortured by her husband, and say to her... “forgive”... it was beyond what I could imagine. 

i, me, skin-covered, clay-vessel, scrappy-little-daughter of God me ---- I wanted to go find Valentine's husband. I wanted to introduce him to my strong, broad shouldered, powerful, Godly husband. And I wanted God to unleash us both on him --- wound for wound, choke for choke, terror for terror. I wanted to beat that man so hard and do such damage to him, that he would be left physically unable to ever wound another. (Oh God, I more than any other need YOU to save me day after day after day.) 

The last time I hit another person in anger was in Third grade, when at the age of 8, I decided my goal for the year would be to beat up every kid in my classroom. I'm not kidding when I say i'm a scrapper at heart. Small for my age with skinny chicken legs, I was a natural target for the bullies at our school. And one day when I saw two girls fight on our school bus, pulling hair out and biting whatever came close to their mouths, I knew, I either had to hit or be hit. I chose the former, an odd sort of self-defense tactic that seemed perfectly logical at the time. After the school bus fight, I declared war on every one. Surely, if the bullies thought I was meaner than them, they'd leave me alone. So by Christmas of my 3^rd grade year I had successfully beaten up e-v-e-r-y kid in my classroom. My dear mother wondered why on earth I came home with torn, play-ground-dirty clothes, my kind principle wondered why on earth I was back in his office for yet another paddling, my friends wondered if they could trust me or not, and I wondered about myself too. At eight digits it was clear, I was a “fight” not a “flight” person. The next year, my wise parents moved me to another school. No one fought at my new school. So I hung up my boxing gloves and relaxed. 

But last week, with wounded Valentine in front of me, imagining little Daisy crying cold in the night, I wanted to take the gloves back down.

Even as I write these words, my blood boils, and i'm ready again.

So the questions come front and center. Is God who He says He is? Does He really see all that happens on this old earth? Does He mean it when He says, “vengeance is mine”? Can He really work even THIS together for good?

I'll not fake it. Those are hard questions when the wounded are before you -----

(or when you yourself are the wounded).

But... when I asked Abba what He would have us do, what is our part for her today?

He ----- was ------ clear.

“Help her most donna, by helping her forgive.”

I paused long. I prayed for HELP. I had not even brought my Bible with me on that day because I was coming to visit sick babies, not teach.

I asked, “Does anyone have their Bible with them today.” Valentine's aunt handed me her Bible, and I felt such comfort in my hands as I opened it up to Matthew 18.

I lay the Bible on the little wooden table in front of me and began telling the story of the Unmerciful Servant. I said, “Valentine, this is going to be hard, but this is God's goodness for you today. He loves you so much, He does not want you tortured beyond the beating you've already endured.” She smiled so sweetly and said, “Please tell us the story.”

I've learned in Africa, telling the story is much more powerful than reading the story. Imagine, all those years ago at our church, when I was allowed to tell Bible-stories to hundreds of children in fine buildings on clean carpeted floors with tastefully painted walls and perfectly tuned sound systems, only God could have known that He was actually training me there for what He would ask me to do here.

With rain pouring down, we sat in this tiny room, with home-made brick walls, a rusty tin roof, and lumpy dirt floors beneath our feet, and I told the same story again.

It's a story worth telling again and again.

Seventeen pairs of eyes fixed on my mouth, the interpreter echoing each word. Mommas and children, taking in Truth and Abba swirled al'round.

The rains came so hard I had to yell to overcome their drumming on the tin above. A wondering cow tried to join us, she needed a refuge from the storm outside. As my Steve kept her from entering (there really was no room in the inn for her), I thought to myself, the storm outside is surely echoing the storm inside dear Valentine's heart Lord.

Then I transitioned to tell the story of the hunter in Australia who found a clever (all be it ugly) way of killing monkeys who were foraging crops from farmers. The hunter built small metal traps with only one small slit in the side of each trap. He secured the traps to trees or fence posts, anything that was strong enough to hold the trap securely in place. Then he simply placed one banana in each trap. After a peaceful sleep, the hunter would rise the next morning to find a monkey at each trap, holding on to the banana. You see, the monkey wanting the banana, would reach inside the small opening, grab hold of the banana, but then with banana in hand, was not able to slide its hand back out the small slit. If the monkey would simply release the banana, it would be free. But, it's focus on the banana would not allow it to release the fruit, and so by choice, the monkey allowed itself to be held in place, a self-imposed prisoner. Sadly for the monkeys (albeit joyfully for the farmers), the monkeys were systematically shot by the hunter. No chasing or struggle or fight. Each monkey watched other monkeys killed, but still would not release their banana.

They giggled at first at the foolishness of the monkeys. But then, they became somber as the meaning of the two stories intertwined.

If we hold on to the things that have wounded us, if we hold on to what we feel justified to hold against another, if we don't let go ---- we will be trapped. We will be tortured. We will be devoured by the one who is like a roaring lion, looking for who he can destroy.

Precious Valentine covered her face with her hands. Her wounded shoulders shook as she wept. We gathered around her, placed our hands gently on her and my dear Steve prayed long and sweet and strong. He prayed for God's goodness and strength to help her lay down what would trap her. Ladies cried out in their mother-tongues as did I, children slid their tiny hands in too, and the goodness of the Lord overcame the ugly of this world.

“There is nothing, indeed, which God will not do for a man who dares to step out upon what seems to be the mist; though as he puts down his foot he finds a rock beneath him.”

-F.B. Meyer

Valentine went home with her aunt that day. Her family will huddle around her closely. I'm told they are good people. Daisy will temporarily live with Valentine's uncle, a kind man who will fiercely protect his little niece. The ladies group has received money to help Valentine pay the 1000KSH (about $12USD) required by law to press charges against and have her husband put in jail for beating her. The courts will then decide what to do with him. When this happens, she will get to have her little son back.

There are so many like Valentine...

all around the world...

those around the Valentines --- do all you can to help them.

And for those who abuse others... know this... God sees... and He will have His day of vengeance.

Until that day comes, may the precious Valentines lay it down and walk away from the trap that would consume them.

… oh how we need our Shepherd...

“Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.” Romans 12:19


©2014 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

...suffering produces perseverance...character...HOPE

The children all stared as I pulled into the school-yard. They always do. Running about in their tattered blue and white school uniforms, they looked at me as if someone famous had arrived. If only they knew, in my eyes they are famous. They endure what i've never been asked to face. And they smile... still.

But I noticed, with a tremble that went clear to my core, they were gathering long sticks. Sticks about ½ to 1 inch thick. Not the kind of sticks I see gathered here for firewood. These sticks looked unkind. But I responded to their friendly, timid waves with a smile that tried to speak through the space between us. Trying to silently say, “You are seen and precious and oh He cares for you”. But the space between us was not just measured in feet... it was much bigger.

Stopping our Lori-car at the main staff offices, I grabbed the bag of fruit and locked the gearshift and the doors. Everything here must be locked. It's the home of the hungry. Hungry people steal. It's the way it is.

The bag of tree tomato fruits were the result of the promise to little Charles. He's seven and sick... with HIV. He doesn't exactly know what is wrong with him, but he wonders at the specs of white that cover his face and the growth that comes and goes on his neck. When you are born sick, the normal measurements of feeling healthy are all skewed.

Two weeks ago we took little Charles to the hospital at the request of kind Mrs. N-----.

I had first visited this school at the edge of the slum to try and help determine if a child had a learning disability. Another child. Not Charles. But that initial visit turned into paying for lunch for 3 children and buying school uniforms for them as well. Children wearing clothes that I would toss out of my dogs sleeping bed... too torn... too tattered. But oh God, these children wear them, and they smile. Mrs. N----- had explained that the “first” step to helping little Robinson with his possible learning problems would be to make sure he had food in his stomach and better clothes on his back. She said, “Perhaps he can not learn because he is hungry and suffers from such a low esteem of himself.” I could see I would only gain the privilege of trying to help him learn to read (at age 12) if I was willing to “own” some of his more immediate problems. Lord...? And so lunches for the term were now covered and new, clean, proper clothes were provided. Thank you God for the shillings in my pocket. Help me use them well.

But on that day, Mrs. N----- said, “If you are willing there is one boy here who no one cares for and he breaks all our hearts. He has a skin condition that is concerning. Can I bring him to meet you?” It's in moments like these when the word “no” is impossible for me. I nodded, she smiled and quickly left the room. Moments later she returns with little, smiling, Charles tucked behind her. He looks at me timidly, but with an awe that is undeserved. Oh God... He is perfectly beautiful. Everything about him draws my heart right out of my chest. And then I see the greyish-white specs covering his forehead. A Kenyan friend had joined me on that initial visit and she shared with me in English that she knew well what the specs meant. “What?” I whispered. “This child is 'positive' and the specs are a sign of his bodies inability to fight off a fungus that a healthy immune system would easily defeat”, my friend M----- softly shared. Mrs. N----- looked down and quietly said, “It is what I wondered might be true. You see, his mother is dead, she died just after he was born. His father left, and has never once returned. The boy lives with his old sho-sho (grandmother) who does not harm to him but she is a drunkard and as such is unable to care for him. In a world full of people, this boy is alone.” We spoke in English, Charles understood not a word of it. He just stood there smiling at me in a shy, I'm-so-happy-you-asked-to-see me sort of way. His life had just been fileted before me ----- and he stood there “alone” smiling. Black shoes far too big, from the second hand market, covered his feet. Blue shorts torn on one side with zipper broken and pooched open sat below his torn white-ish shirt with several buttons missing and one ripped sleeve. But... he smiled straight into my heart.

She said, “Can you do something to help him please?”

My heart and mind joined forces and screamed at a volume that deafened my ears ----- “i can't, this little man needs so much more than I could ever begin to do. I've been called here to this place to... not to... but someone should... oh GOD...” Still over the roar in my ears that screamed of my inability, I said, “How do you propose we begin?”

“He must go to the hospital to be tested. But it costs money. Then we can begin to know how to treat the specs on his face and the swelling on his neck. But it will all cost many shillings. Are you willing?” My mind settled into one clear thought... “so this is what the shillings in my pocket are for today...” 

I explained to Mrs. N----- that I would need to speak with my husband first, we would pray, and then I would call her. “But, for today, I will pay for school lunches for the three children we've spoken of, and I will go to town to purchase uniforms for these same three.”

In 3 split seconds, my mind traveled back to my elementary school days, where no uniforms had been required, but each child wore their own chosen clothing. Her name was Rita, and she was woefully poor. Her hair always looked like spiders lived in its many wads of tangled mess. And her clothes were not only torn and dirty, but oh how they smelled of wet dog and outhouse. But in those days I watched her from a safe/clean/i'm-better-than-you distance and I laughed at her along with the others. Oh how painful dear Rita's world must have been. But I had done nothing, nothing, NOTHING to soften it. I could have given her my extra clothes... I could have invited her over to my house for a long bubble bath and warm dinner... I could have invited her to sit beside me on our bus... but those thoughts were as foreign to my young mind as the idea that fish could read or cows could climb ladders.

Rita sat beside my heart as I looked at this little boy, and inside I whispered, “Rita, I didn't help you, but I will help this little one ---- you taught my heart lessons Rita ---- i'm sorry your suffering was used to teach me.”

So on that rainy afternoon, M---- and I went to town and purchased the needed uniforms and shiny new black leather school shoes and backpacks. Sort of like all those years of back-to-school shopping for my own sweet children... but different... oh so different. The rains gushed on us as we dodged street-boys high on glue and raced back to the car. My mind lying to me... “don't worry donna, none of this is really real...”

Wheels sliding on buttery mud, we finally made it back to M-----'s house/hut. She would deliver 2 uniforms and I would deliver Charles' the next day.

My dear Steve and I prayed when I returned home as i shared all with him. He could see the ache inside me, he gently said, we will do all God lets us do for little Charles. A phone call to Mrs. N---- had us scheduled to pick she and Charles up the next day... to go to the hospital... and begin unraveling the tangles holding him.

At 1PM sharp we pulled into the school. Mrs. N---- called for Charles and helped him put on his new shiny shoes and clean, new uniform. Oh the smile.

We headed to the hospital and sat before the doctor. He explained that bloodwork would have to be drawn and then we would know. Charles screamed as they brought out the needle. Little explanation was given to him, just big hands and a needle. Things are done so differently here.

As we waited for the results, Steve and Charles began a playful interaction that warmed my heart so deeply. If I had not already loved this man beside me, I would have fallen in love with him then and there. The gap between English and Swahili was closed with playful gestures and funny faces. If every man living loved so well... well, there would be no sick little boys in torn clothes.

Called back into the Dr.s office he quietly spoke in English, Charles understood not a word. “The tests show the boy is 'positive' and the fungus on his face and swelling of his neck are signs of his bodies inability to defend itself.” period... Charles looked up at Steve and … smiled. He did not know what had just filled the air around him. He only knew that this kind mzungu man was safe.

Prescriptions were written, pharmacies visited, and a plan was formed for the days to come.

Mrs. N---- would give him his meds at school, since the sho-sho could not be depended upon for this. She also said, she would be sure Charles had a good meal each morning so he could begin taking the needed ARVs. My friend M----- would begin working with the grandmother to provide one meal at night so meds could be taken then as well. I agreed to bring a back of fruit every Friday to the school so Charles could be sure to receive the needed Vitamin C --- which is vital for his health when taking ARVs and fighting illnesses.

But we wanted Charles to have an active part in taking care of himself as well. He can be taught “how to fish” or we can ruin him for good and just give him fish everyday.

So I made a deal with Charles. I would trade him a bag of fruit every Friday for a story. He would need to write a story for me every week, about whatever he wanted to say, and I would “purchase” his stories with a bag of fruit. He smiled at the idea and we shook hands. Oh Lord...

Now two weeks later, i'm delivering my tree-tomatoes; payment for a story.

Last Friday, a bag of oranges purchased this “story”: (remember I told him he could write whatever he wanted)

“My name is Charles Wafula Maiya. (and 9 numbered sentences followed)

1- I don't have enough food.

2- I need medicine.

3- I have no fruits to eat.

4- I need pencil, rubber, exercise books.

5- I have no clean water.

6- I have no home clothes.

7- I have no flask for keeping porridge.

8- I need tea leaves and milk.

9- I need sugar for porridge and tea.

Need and lack --- it's what he wrote of ---

And my shoulders slumped. But God whispered to my soul, “dear donna, isn't this often how your list looks before me... be patient with him... he is just sharing with you what sits first in his mind...”

I had dreamed of imaginative, creative, tap-into-his-deep-well stories. Stories that would speak loudly, move hearts, and astound the literary world ----- all written by a little boy in the slum.

But real life isn't like movies... real life is -------------hard.

As I arrived this second week with my fruit in hand, there is no Mrs. N----- to be found. But instead, as I walk into the office, I find a fat man sitting at the head of a table. The table is receiving donations of sticks... sticks being gathered by children who now stand along the walls of the shadowy room. The man looks at me --- hard. I walk on to Mrs. N-----'s office to leave the fruit. Another teacher assures me my bag of Vitamin C will reach Mrs. N----- and Charles, she knows of our “deal”.

Everything around me plays out in slow motion now. I can feel darkness coming hard. It's 3 in the afternoon, but it may as well be midnight. I pass back through the ugly room holding timid children, sticks for caning, and a fat man. I look at the children... they smile shyly with heads down. I look at the sticks... and stop. I look at the man... and feel his challenge. And darkness swirls strong.

I am defeated.

Walking to my car, I get inside and sit long. Tears come hard. What do I do?

There is nothing I can do. there-is-nothing-i-can-do

I drive slowly out the gate and scream inside my safe Lori-car. It's not the first time she's heard me scream in this way --- in this country ---- so far from home.

I drive slowly home --- just 4 blocks away over muddy, bumpy roads.

And the darkness keeps swirling --- strong --- heavy --- hard-to-breathe- heavy.

That night there are nightmares.

The next day I fight with my dear husband. It's not his fault. It's not even mine. But we fight. (If you think because we minister to marriages that ours is immune to attack --- then, well, you're wrong.)

The next night, more nightmares. And I wake up with a very clear thought ----- as if it has been whispered to me with a nudge to awaken.

The thought... with an ugly whisper that chilled my bones... “you know you can't do this, you know you are beaten, you know you're wasting your time, you know you are a disappointment to yourself, to Steve, and even to the One you call Abba. See, I win here, and you know it. So, get up out of this bed, and open the bottle of ibuprofen, swallow them all down, and put us all out of our misery...” !!!!!

and I weakly began saying, “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High, will rest in the shadow of the Almighty... I will say of the Lord, HE IS MY REFUGE, my FORTRESS, my GOD IN WHOM I TRUST... Surely, oh Lord, surely YOU will save me from the fowler's snare and from the deadly pestilence. You will cover me with your feathers, and under YOUR wing I will find my refuge...”... and I kept on reciting the whole chapter over and over and over again.

Then morning came. The rooster crowed, the birds began their singing, and Steve woke to begin his morning time with God.

I lay frozen to the bed. Knowing full well the attack I had weathered in the night. Still shaken, but breathing.

Steve brings coffee to me, he is a kind man. I rise an open my devotional for the morning and here's how my Abba strengthens His girl,

from Matthew 14:29,30 – and “Streams in the Desert” by Mrs. Cowman

“When Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me...”

“Peter had a little faith in the midst of his doubts, says Bunyan; and so with crying and coming he was brought to Christ.

But here you see that sight was a hindrance; the waves were none of his business when once he had set out; all Peter had any concern with was the pathway of light that came gleaming across the darkness from where Christ stood. If it was tenfold Egypt beyond that, Peter had no call to look and see.

When the Lord shall call to you over the waters, 'Come,' step gladly forth. Look not for a moment away from Him.

Not by measuring the waves can you prevail; not by gauging the wind will you grow strong; to scan the danger may be to fall before it; to pause at the difficulties is to have them break above your head. Lift up your eyes unto the hills, and go forward ------ there is no other way.”

oh donna ---- “Look not for a moment away from Him.” Even if it's sticks on a table and a fat, mean men before you, don't pause at the difficulties or measure the waves or gauge the strength of the wind or scan the danger before you ---- but lift up your eyes donna, keep them set on the hills, that's where your strength comes from, from the One over all ----- there is no-----other------way.

God sees the fat man and the sticks and the children and Charles. Don't measure the strength of the darkness in the room ------- focus on the LIGHT you bring with you. And move forward... with the Light.

“Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.” Romans 5:3-5


©2014 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

she dances...

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance... Ecclesiastes 3:4

While little Grace was still in her mother's womb, Jesus moved in beside her, into her mother's soul. Just as if He wanted to be sure she felt Him near...

Abandoned by her earthly father, her mother wept over how she would ever be able to feed four little mouths on her own. Life for a single mother in Africa is like paddling upriver e-v-e-r-yday. There's the stigma of society that silently taunts “why” do your children not have a father; there's the struggle of putting a roof over their heads and food in their ever aching stomachs. Never-mind that the mother has remained faithful and had no power to hold the father to the place he should have stayed. So many things ache here. Mosquitos bring malaria. Bad water brings typhoid. Even the dirt here holds hidden parasites and jumping jiggers. But on that dirt dances a little girl who has mesmerized this writer with her worship.

Grace. She sparkles in a unassuming, silent way. She looks no different than all the others around her. Just one in a million of close shaved heads bouncing down a dirt road. But she is.

Her mother, Eve, shared with me once that she wondered at why God would choose to place one like Grace under her care. “What do you mean, Eve?”, I asked. “It's just that Grace teaches me, but she has no idea all I learn from her.” And Eve began to share the holy-beauty of this little snaggle-toothed treasure. She said...

“When Grace talks to God she holds nothing back. She wails and cries knowing she is in a crowd of many, but calling out to have God's eyes come upon her alone. She neither notices nor ponders what another might think, for she is most interested in calling on the One who made her. She knows He loves her, hears her, cares for her. She knows. Not because she's been told it is so, but because she … well, she just knows it to be true.”

Once while at their church and when Grace was just old enough to go to school, she asked her mother why her friends were beginning school the next day, but she was not. With gentle words, Eve explained, “Grace, I have no money to send you to school. But when God gives us the money, you will go to school.” Grace smiled. Looking down she walked slowly away, crossing the church to the far distant corner where no one was sitting. It was not a Sunday, so few were there. But Eve and her children often went to the church during the week. They sometimes even slept there. When life is hard at home, church becomes a refuge. Eve sat with a friend who had taught her much as a young Christian mother, little Grace sought the solitude of the corner.

Minutes later, cries were heard coming from Grace's corner. Eve froze and strained to hear what was wrong. Faintly at first, but then growing in strength, little Grace's words came, “God, I cry on you! Really, God, I cry on you for help. You see, you know, you know what is needed. You know my mother needs money to send me to school. You know my brother needs to go with me. You know.. God... GOD... OH GOD... you are the One to take care of us. My mother will send us to school if you send her the money. But GOD, you must make a way... I cry on you GOD”

"Nakulilia Mungu wangu" (swahili for "i cry on you my God" )

All this gushed out in high pitched wails.

Not in subtle, soft, polite, proper whispers. No this little one was “calling” to God and crying on Him. Eve began to move to stop Grace from disturbing the others. Eve was concerned with the volume of her daughter's words, she didn't want her child distracting others from their grown-up-things. And Eve was herself, just learning the ways of God. As she began to move towards Grace, the lady beside stayed her with these words, “Eve, we grown-ups need to learn from your Grace, she is wiser than we. You told her what was needed, she is asking. We sit and talk about our problems, she takes them straight to the One who can do something about them. She cares little for how she looks, she wants to see God. Grace is right. She is talking to God --- and now we pray and ask, 'God will you please hear the prayer of little Grace.'”

The wailing prayers rolled into asking forgiveness for the wrongs of anyone in her house. Asking for God's help to show them all the way He wants them to live. “Help us Lord, forgive us, show us, forgive us...” The cries were high pitched and melodic. The kind that hold air still.

After about 20 minutes of this (yes, twenty minutes of prayer from a 6 year old wee-warrior), Grace got up, wiped off her clothes, and walked home.

That night there came a call on Eve's phone.

A neighbor was asking for Grace and Peter to be up early in the morning, prepared to go with her to school. Eve asked, “How can you take them to school, for I have not school fees to send with them?”

The neighbor said, “Never you mind, just have them ready early.”

Then early in the morning Eve went to the church to pray as usual.

As the sun rose Eve returned home and awakened the children, with instructions to get dressed and be ready for the neighbor's arrival. She spoke not of what the neighbor had said, the children were just to go with her. Eve held it in her heart, had God heard Grace's prayers?

Hours passed until evening, and finally Grace and Peter returned, with a full year's school fees paid and sporting new school uniforms. And Grace... well she danced and danced twirling herself about and moving every inch of her tiny frame, shouting in a sing-song way, “God you love me, really you love me. You have taken me to school and given what I asked. Oh God I thank you, God I thank you, really, GOD it is YOU who has done this. God surely you love me...”

Eve was learning from her 6 year old prayer-child. God had moved the heart of a missionary just the day before when Grace was praying. The missionary gave funds to cover school fees for 20 children and had asked the neighbor to find the best candidates. By nightfall, 18 children had been found, but 2 were still needed. As the neighbor had prayed for two more children, Grace and Peter had come to her mind. … " Nakulilia Mungu wangu" ---“God, I cry on you! Really, God, I cry on you for help.”...

oh God...

Tiny Grace has four pairs of shoes in this world. School shoes, church shoes, rain-boots, and rubber shoes. She dances in those shoes. 

How many pairs of shoes do I have? How many of them have danced for joy over the goodness of God?

Oh God... i am learning.

This year... the anonymous missionary was no longer able to pay for the children's school fees. But, another has done so and has paid all that is needed for the next 2 years. A little girl's prayers in the corner of a church moved Heaven. And perhaps the Father loves to see His little Grace dance!

One night at dinner time Grace sat back in her seat and said, “We always have vegetables, but never any meat. Mom I want cow-meat to eat. Can we have some cow-meat?” Eve explained that cow-meat was costly and they were blessed to have vegetables. Grace threw back her tiny head and says, “Lord (in a perfectly wonderful high-pitched tone), we thank you for the vegetables, they are good and we are glad for them. But would you please send us some cow-meat to eat? It would be so good to eat ...”. Finishing her food she settled in to sleep. Eve smiled.

The next day Eve came to work and no sooner had she arrived but I called her into the kitchen and said, “Eve, yesterday I bought two packets of meat at the market. It is good beef, but I cooked one last night and it is just too tough for us. Would you be willing to take this one home with you and cook it long so it will be tender with your vegetables tonight?” Eve looked at me with a most curious look, but replied with a quiet, “Yes mom, I will cook it tonight.” I was concerned that my gift of 'tough' meat might have offended. So I purposed in my heart to be more careful the next time.

The following day Eve shared with me how God had worked through Grace's prayers and how I, completely unaware of Grace's request to God, had handed her a packet of cow-meat the very next morning. Eve's curious look had only been an expression of shock at God's quick provision after Grace's prayer just the night before.

Most beautiful was Eve's telling of how Grace had danced

and danced

and danced

when Eve had arrived home the evening before with a packet of cow-meat for their dinner.

She danced... and twirled... and thanked God loudly... singing, “God you love me, really you love me!”

And i'm learning.

How long has it been since I DANCED for joy over the goodness of God?

David danced.

David even danced naked... (that's not happening!!)

But ---- HE DANCED for joy.

“Let them praise his name in the dance...” Psalm 149:3

Have I held myself too carefully? Do I worry too much over what “they” might think? Is it the eyes around me or the eyes above me that matter most?

In my inner most being --- I know GOD loves for little Grace to dance.

… I close my eyes and worship Abba as the music plays and praise spills from my lips... I close my eyes and reach with my hands... I feel His robes brush my fingers...and i'm twirling at His feet. He's High and Holy and God-of-All --- i'm His little girl twirling and dancing around his great mighty feet. His white robes gently whisk round me, no one sees me, no one knows – One sees me, One knows. I'm His tiny dancing daughter, He's my Holy-Daddy-God. He covers me and loves me and I dance... and dance... and dance...

… I close my eyes and worship Abba... and dance around His robes.

…[Christians] believe that the living, dynamic activity of love has been going on in God for ever and has created everything else. And that, by the way, is perhaps the most important difference between Christianity and all other religions: that in Christianity God is not a static thing–not even a person–but a dynamic, pulsating activity, a life, almost a kind of drama.  Almost, if you will not think me irreverent, Christianity is to be a kind of dance…

And now, what does it all matter?  It matters more than anything else in the world.  The whole dance, or drama, or pattern of this three-Personal life is to be played out in each one of us: or (putting it the other way round) each one of us has got to enter that pattern, take his place in that dance. There is no other way to the happiness for which we were made.”

–from C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

©2014 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

In this world... you will have trouble

 L-R Butch Cassidy, Calamity Jane, and the Sundance Kid (this pic is a fun re-enactment --- we took no pics on the real-deal-day)

He was 10 feet from the car, but the look on his face was a dead give-away; our day was spiraling downward with every step he took. Do people know when they yell with an accent, it is impossible to understand them?

He looked at us and yelled something about our belts. Then he was on the three 20+ year olds in the backseat; our son Peter and two close friends visiting us from the States. And when I say he was on them, it's literal, not figurative. With his arm in the car-window he pointed wildly, tugged at their shirts and yelled, “Out of the car, get out of the car NOW”, those words we understood completely.

Oh why had we allowed ourselves to watch the movie Blood Diamond the night before??

The accented voice screaming was all too familiar from the two hour cinema experience just 12 hours earlier... and there were guns here too.

He made the “kids” get out of the car but would not let us. All five of us were asking the same question, “What are you saying? What do you mean? What are you doing? Why are you so angry?” But when he began shoving them to his green police truck, telling them to get in, we could begin to grasp he intended to take them away from us... to jail... and then to court... because they had not been wearing their seat belts. Everything changed in those short moments. All “deals” were off. Steve and I had multiple, mini, internal explosions all of which erupted out of our mouths. Where we come from you don't just grab “kids” out of the back seat and take them to jail. It's just not done.

Instantly our missionary mindset left us; we became furious foreigners ready to fight.

Oh God...

When we said the words, “We are calling the Embassy before you take them anywhere”. It added fuel to his rage. And when the potent words, “You will loose your job for this...” came screaming off my tongue, it poured gasoline on the fire.

I fully meant my words ---- there was no jest ---- and in America I could have backed them up.

My mind flashed back to a time when I had stood in line to get my license renewed. The uniformed men were slowly working their way through the long line. In front of me was a couple obviously from Mexico, speaking broken English and looking so frightened. They held a little boy in their arms. When they stepped up to be served, and one of the uniforms behind the desk said the words, “Whatta ya' need 'Taco'?”, my anger was like a fine italian sports car... 0 to 90 in 1 second FLAT. The next 5 minutes were agonizing as this couple had to endure the DMV employees prejudice attitude. He called them several other derogatory names as he told them too loudly they needed to go “home” and get more paperwork. As they walked away, he turned to me and in a courteous tone asked how he could help me today...

I produced the needed paperwork, got my license renewed, wrote down his name in the process and before walking away leaned over his desk to tell him how he had embarrassed me, an American, by the way he had treated that family. He was shocked. I was furious. More words were shared and I said the words, “You need to have a job working with rocks and stumps not people with souls... and beginning this afternoon I am going to do all I can to remove you from this position.”

(doesn't sound much like a missionary in the making does it... see, my life is actually PROOF that there is a good God and He does transform lives...)

Justice matters in this world.

So does kindness... and goodness... and standing up for what is right... standing up for those who are being mistreated... standing up for those who don't have a voice... yes.

My parents taught us well. Treat others the way you want to be treated. Be kind. Live Sunday's words on all seven days. And I grew up watching my parents teach it by living it.

Justice matters.

All those years ago, I made several phone calls and wrote several letters, and received a phone call from “brass” at DMV with an apology for the behavior of their employee and and confirmation that he had been transferred to a position that did now give him opportunity to interact with the public. I was so thankful, he had not lost his job, but he had been reprimanded, moved to a job working with papers instead of people, and the next time the hispanic couple went back to the desk, they would hopefully be treated as all people should be. Ah... justice.

But now years later, living in Kenya, all the rules have changed and the players don't appreciate justice. Power and position command respect here and rough hands with loud voices carry loaded guns too big for holsters. The whole game is different here.

There were about 7 uniformed officers around our car. One was yelling, the others were genuinely kind saying, “Just do what he says, please just don't argue with him.” Two officers whispered to me, “We are so sorry he is acting this way, but please he will only get worse if you don't comply.” Their eyes conveyed how embarrassed they were.

They did not want their fellow officer to ruin how we would view Kenyan police. They knew what was happening was wrong.

On any given day in Kitale, you can sit by the road and count cars passing by and count the drivers wearing seat-belts. We did it yesterday. Out of 60+ cars, only two were wearing a seat-belt. There were police checks in place, but no one was getting yelled at or shoved into a police car for not buckling up.

On the day we were accosted by the irate officer, we were wearing our seat-belts in the front. But when he approached our car, long before he ever came near, we could see the look in his eye. He was determined to have power and control over us, he was determined to take us to jail for something. Injustice was rolling its camera.

The kids were wrong, and according to American law they should have been wearing their seat-belts. And even though we were only going 5 kph in the middle of town... they technically should have been wearing their belts. But we had never heard the law that backseat passengers had to wear seat-belts or they would be taken to jail and court.

Justice would say, they broke the law, they should be charged. Yes.

But pulling, pushing, shoving, yelling, and terrorizing the offenders and the adults with them --- while dozens of others ride by breaking the same law... it was all so wrong.

The lines had been drawn in the sand though, and he was stomping on our side of the line.

In the end, it became clear to us, he would “win”. He hauled the 3 offenders to jail in a police truck with no seat-belts while yelling at them the entire time. We followed behind having to speed through the busy town just trying to keep up since we had no idea where the jail was. We prayed, as we followed, for their safety in the truck and in the hands of this billigerant, unreasonable man. Are God's kids allowed to be that angry when they talk with Him? I'm thankful for the words... “And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests...” (Ephesians 6:18a)

And Abba heard...

90 minutes later, we pulled out of the police station, with our three “outlaws” ------- wearing seat-belts. We were all stunned and shaken. But thankfully Steve had done a wonderful job stating our “case” before the arresting officer's commander. So our Butch Cassidy, Calamity Jane, and the Sundance Kid were released with a warning --- and a great story for years to come.

It could have gone all wrong --- but it didn't.

While Steve was negotiating for the release of the “criminals”, I was left sitting alone in the jail surrounded by other Kenyans. It was an intense moment of “Reaching for the Robe”... and I prayed. I began talking with Jesus, asking for help. At first my prayers were silent and then without realizing it, the prayers were flowing out of my mouth---- out loud. Only when the Kenyan man sitting beside me began nodding his head did I realize I was talking out loud. It was too surreal. But truth be told, I was calling mighty warrior angels to comeswiftly to our aid. Might sound melodramatic to some, but sitting in a jail with 3 behind bars and one being taken to the Commanders office... well it seemed like the right time to fight... while sitting still on a dirty bench.

I asked for help.

I asked for God's cover and protection.

I asked for the Judge to judge and expose the injustice.

I asked for mighty warriors to cover us with their shields and rescue us.

… and it is so good being God's kid.

“He will cover you with His feathers and under His wing you will find refuge. You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday.” (Psalm 91)… nor the screaming policeman (added by me)...

We left with an experience under our belt and a good story the “outlaws” will be telling to their grandkids someday.

And a reminder --- “In this world you will have trouble. But don't be afraid, I HAVE overcome the world.”

It took us about 24 hours to do the right thing in our hearts. We prayed for that arresting officer. We forgave him. And we committed that we would go no further in pursuing justice over the matter. God reminded us that HE was there, He saw it all, and HE will judge.

We're learning... slowly but surely.


©2014 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

God's Hand on the Skein... Part 2

Years ago, long before i knew her, she suffered. You can't tell it by listening to her energetic words or looking into her sparkling eyes. She doesn't ruminate over what was. She had loved and been hurt and suffered marks from the hurting. She had bravely stood against the injustice of bigger muscles being used in ways all wrong. And in time, she had forgiven it and laid it down ----- laid it down at the foot of the Cross --- where Holy blood spilled to cover all that should not have been.
i love her.

Never telling details. Never re-digesting the pain. But always perched and ready to hold a hurting heart tenderly because she knows the difference tenderness can make.
She has a room in her house ----- a small special room --- where she sits with Yahweh and talks and listens and learns and is made new, often.

She's tiny beside me --- my eyes look down towards her when we're talking --- but my heart, it sees her by looking up. I can tell her anything. She's never judged me one time --- not when i was being petty or self-condemning or weak or fearful. She just gets this tender strong look in her eye and helps lift me back up. She has seen me break over the pain of Kenyan sisters. She amazes me. She didn't shrink away from their pain. She used her own pain in years past to enable her to scoot up close beside them. What the enemy had intended for harm ---- she allowed GOD to use for good. And she loves deeply, unselfishly, unconditionally, completely.

She's one of three ladies i lean into when the winds blow too hard inside.

Months ago i wrote of skeins and knots and gentle hands straightening tangled yarn. If you haven't read it yet, you can click here to read it now.
She makes me feel so loved --- not only does she read what i write, but she often messages me in some special way. Those of us who write understand --- when we bare our innards, we feel a bit exposed. Words of affirmation and encouragement matter.

Two days after reading "God has His hand on the Skein of me..." ---- she sent deeper thoughts to me ---- i've rolled them around for several months now --- asked then if i could someday share --- and so finally... here's the next "chapter" inspired by insights from my dear warrior friend.

The Skein Part 2 - 

It seems my dear friend had been knitting a blanket. When she was forced to pause from her work to untangle one of those knots that emerged from the center of her chosen skein, she laid down needles, straightened what was a mess, and resumed her work. 
Knitting away, working on a knew pattern, she was eager to see if the blanket would emerge as she had imagined it would be. But as it formed in her lap ----- she didn't like the look of it. She said, "It was too porous. my hard work was producing something that looked more like a decorative doily rather than a cozy blanket."

She could have become angry and frustrated over the unwanted results. She could have tucked blanket, needles, skein and all in a corner cabinet and walked away. She could have literally thrown it all away -- refusing to spend anymore time on the unsightly outcome.
But...
instead...
She laid her needles down and gently pulled the string of yarn ----- slowly unwinding the blanket she had just created moments before.
She ----- "left the old behind ----- and started afresh --- using the same yarn she had used before".

Sounds familiar... "Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on..."

Lovely indeed. The yarn itself was not ruined. Only the way in which it had been used was producing an unwanted, useless, undesirable result. 
Noticing the faint kinks in the string of yarn laid out before her, she could see "it had seen some storms but it was still strong, pliable, and usable".

Oh how like me...
maybe like you as well...
We get wounded in this world don't we? We sometimes get "used" and twisted and formed into something we don't want to be. Didn't ask for it - wouldn't have chosen it - but find ourselves all porous and unable to keep even the slightest chill at bay. 
Those are the moments when the deceiver puts an evil megaphone to our ear and shouts in to our weakest places --- "look at you, you're useless, you'll never be enough, you'll never be what the others are, you're no good for anything ---- why keep trying..."

Oh dear God! Thank you for saving us from the lying accuser. Thank you for your words... for your WORD --- you say, "You did not choose me, but I, God, chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit -- fruit that will last..." 

You take the porous blanket we are disappointed in ---- 
and you gently pull the cord of yarn, 
unwinding us, 
even to our core. 
You see what can be, if we will only lay ourselves in your hands and accept the knitting needles you choose to us. Struggling = knots.
..."though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death... i will not fear... for You are with me... your rod and your staff, they comfort me..." 
...and a staff can look like a knitting needle sometimes.

You don't lie to us, acting as if all is well, when knots are all inside us.
You don't leave us.
You come to us. 
You touch all the holes we wearily carry ---- and you begin working your plans with the yarn that has been so poorly used by lesser hands.

Mary Magdelene was surely a beauty on the outside; but inside she was a used, porous blanket that could neither shield her soul from the chilling wind nor offer good comfort to another. She had been deemed guilty and bad, evil and adulterous. Men were preparing to stone her. That's what they do to those of us who don't measure up. 
But not You. 
You...
Lord, You saw "her". 
You saw the strands of yarn that had been so wrongly used. You knew that even she didn't see value in the skein of yarn holding her in a poorly made blanket of bondage. No one saw the great value ---- but You did. And you stepped towards her.

No matter where we are... or how we look... or what we've become... You are always stepping towards us.

And if we will lay ourselves down in your hands, You will begin reworking us. 
Remaking us. 
Redeeming us.
... You begin unwinding us --- oh Lord, we do live wound up tightly don't we.
And then when we feel ourselves lying helpless, unable, surrendered... 
that's when you know we are ready to begin becoming what you've seen us as all along. 
You use your great staff and you knit us together in new ways. You, know what is need and we've f-i-n-a-l-l-y realized we do NOT.

My dear friend ended her note to me with these perfect words... 

..."this time the weave is stronger and the stitch more beautiful! Just like what Jesus does with us!"

(My dearest Sandra... it's taken me a whole year to finally share the rest of the story of the yarn. i wrote the first part in April before we moved to Kenya... and now the second part finally comes. Thank you for the many ways you've helped our Abba rework and redeem the yarn that holds me together. You are beauty among us.)


©2014 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe