Blobs of Colour & Fuzzy Lines

I am standing before what seems to be a large painting. It is still sitting on the easel. My nose is almost touching the center of the canvas. Oops! Got some orange paint on my nose! From this perspective, you know what? It ain't makin' much sense! The colours are all a blur, the images skewed, it makes my head spin. I've heard of the author. He's the best, actually. I can't imagine he would make something that wasn't absolutely beautiful. It just doesn't sound like anything I've heard about this artist. But for some reason my feet are stuck to the floor and I am having a hard time changing my vantage point. It's frustrating because I am experiencing a bit of difficulty appreciating the beauty of the masterpiece before me.

Ah, who is this standing behind me? None other than the artist himself. I thought He would look different. I don't know, it just seems that He doesn't fit the box I put Him in. He is still holding a wet paintbrush and a pallet with many colours. Now He has the perfect view. He can see the picture for what it really looks like, for what it is meant to be and the story it is intended to tell. He has a much better viewpoint, a different perspective. Yet He is still close enough to fix any flaws and make any necessary changes.

Sometimes I think we are too close to the details of our lives simply because we walk in the middle of our lives. To us it might look like a mess, a disaster, even. Creator God is standing behind us with the brush. And this Artist loves to talk about His masterpiece and explain its intricate , purposeful design to the one who is standing close enough to listen.

Of Flies & Bearded Ladies

I recently finished a microbiology course. In one of the lectures, we were learning about diseases caused by Protozoans. The professor made a passing statement that may have seemed altogether trivial and insignificant to the other 120 students trying to stay awake at 8:30 on a Thursday morning. The tsetse fly causes a very serious disease called African trypanosomiasis, aka "sleeping sickness". Ever had it? I doubt it, unless you grew up in Africa. It is estimated that up to 500 million people are affected by this disease. Their prognosis? Poor. But there is good news! There is a drug nicknamed the "resurrection drug". It is extremely effective. Then the professor's passing comment burst my happy bubble. "The drug companies don't make this drug anymore because the people who need it can't afford to buy it." I don't remember anything else from that lecture. I have been angry ever since.

I took some time to research this, hoping he was wrong. Aventa is the drug company responsible for this drug. They discontinued it in 1995 because "it was not profitable". Apparently, the 500 million people with the disease is irrelevant. Oh yeah, it's Africa. They don't count. In this moment I am ashamed to call myself a member of the human race. I am incensed. I am angry. And I feel helpless.

But the story becomes even more ridiculous. In recent times, the drug has made it back into production. Apparently the drug lords discovered a profit. This same drug inhibits growth of facial hair in women. You can purchase it in a topical cream. Warning: The contents of this tube will not help you if you have sleeping sickness.

Perspective

A few years ago I was living in Southern Ontario. One Sunday after church, on a whim I decided to drive an hour away to visit my parents. (Mum always had chocolate:) On my way back home, I got stuck in one of the renowned Highway 401 traffic jams. It got me thinking about perspective as I watched the firemen put out a truck fire. I took the opportunity to do some people-watching, which happens to be one of my favourite things to do. Everyone in the car in front of me immediately pulled out their cell phones. All five of them. To my right, which happened to be the shoulder, cars started whizzing by, driven by impatient people who were desperately trying to escape the inevitable. Up a little to the left, a man was standing in the middle of the traffic with a pair of binoculars. Who carries binoculars in their car?! Dog owners with dogs in tow came out of multiple cars. They walked their dogs and talked to other dog owners. Funny I didn't see any cats. MacDonalds was about 50 meters away, so those who like to put scary things into their bodies headed for the golden arches. Behind me on the right, two girls started a full-on gymnastic session complete with a long succession of back flips. Very impressive. Any my favourite, a dad playing catch with his little boy. Half an hour later, the traffic started moving and everyone got back into their cars and drove away.

I started thinking about how all of these people were presented with the exact same scenario: stuck on the 401 on a beautiful summer Sunday afternoon. However, each perspective was a bit different. Some fought it and became agitated while others made the most of the situation and turned it into an opportunity.

That's how life happens. We get thrown a bunch of curve balls and how we deal with it depends on our perspective. Is it a problem or a challenge? Is it a difficult situation or a solution waiting to happen? Some people are naturally bent towards negative thinking. I used to be one of them so I know that people can learn to change their perspective. One of my favourite Bible verses is Psalm 84:6 - As they pass through the Valley of Baca, they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools. [NIV] The Valley of Baca is also called the Valley of Weeping. Been there. Perspective. Gather up the tears and turn them into a spring. Refreshing. Giving life to others. It doesn't just happen. You gotta make it happen. Sing until you've got a pool of living water.

The Dream

Something happened when my world fell apart so many years ago. I began to dream. I began to dream of what could be. I began to dream about healing and wholeness; freedom and deliverance; hope and a future - but not just for me. For broken humanity. All of a sudden I saw the world through different eyes. I understood pain. I was acquainted with grief. I felt the sting of injustice. Something rose up inside of me. Something wanted to fight back. Not in anger or blind rage, but to fight back with truth, hope, deliverance, healing. I wanted to make the Devil regret that he ever messed with my life. I sat down one day and wrote the following:

I've seen the forgotten places where tonight the sound of crying can be heard in the shadows, where innocence is reserved only for those who have never seen light, where there is no value placed upon humanity, where every woman's head is bowed low, where every heart is calloused and broken, surrounded by an impenetrable wall whose name is Self-Preservation, where hopelessness and brokenness have their home together, where they dance to a symphony out of tune - the kingdom of darkness, present on earth...
I dream of a place where laughter is heard in the streets, where children play, unharmed, clothed in innocence, where a man's life is never taken by another, where every woman knows the meaning of Princess and Royal Daughter, where there are songs of deliverance and hope written on every heart, joy upon every countenance, where purpose and destiny reside together, where mourning is turned to dancing - the Kingdom of Heaven come to earth.

Did You Hear the News Today?

A few years ago, I worked for an NGO, helping them launch a new humanitarian relief program. During those years, I saw enough poverty and broken humanity to wreck my life. Many nights I would lie awake with the images of those children before me. Global poverty is overwhelming. When you stand in the middle of it, see it, smell it, touch it, your life will be forever ruined for the ordinary. So many times I felt powerless to make a significant change. In those times, it helped to rant and rave on paper. The following article was written on one of those nights...

Did you hear? 27,000 children died yesterday. Oh, wait. You probably didn't hear that one on the evening news. That's too bad because 27,000 children died again today. And guess what will happen tomorrow? You guessed it. Another 27,000 kids will die. I lay awake for a few hours sometime in the middle of the night which was quite frustrating, to be honest, because in one week's time, sleep will be a limited resource. I was thinking about these kids and how it's like losing a small city every day. If it happened in North America, wouldn't it be on the news? Wouldn't we do something about it? Wouldn't our governments throw billions of dollars at the problem if it affected them personally? You know what is even more heartbreaking? They aren't dying from some strange incurable disease. They are dying because they don't have clean water, food, education or an immunization program.

Last year during one of our trips, one of the participants offered a candy to one of the little kids. His response was, "No thank you. It's not my turn to eat." This little guy lived with his mom and two other siblings. He ate once every three days. Today was his little sister's turn to eat.

Guess how much Canada spent on retail sales December 2005? $36.8 billion. We also spent another $393 million dollars on Christmas decorations. I think of Esperanza, my little Compassion Child. $420 supports her for one year. If you do the math, just over $4 billion dollars would have kept those 9.85 million children alive last year. I feel sick. Poverty isn't something new. It's always been there since the beginning of time. However, now we have no excuse because we can Google the stats on the internet. Do you think that we, as a country, might be held accountable someday?

In this current season of my life, I am not able to physically be in the middle of this poverty I write about. Every part of me wants to be back there and it frustrates me on many days. I never want to forget how the rest of the world lives. The widows, the orphans, the children sold in slavery, the two little girls in the white convertible in Sosua who were being pimped out one night, the prostitutes who are ashamed of their work but find it's the only way they know to feed their children, and on and on and on it goes...

I'm just not satisfied with a normal, comfortable life, living only for my own pleasure. I live in Canada but I left a part of my heart on a dirt road in the middle of somewhere. God, please don't let my dreams die. Instead, in this wilderness season, refine them into what you've called me to be.

The Whole Story

It snowed that night in August. I remember walking outside the tent where we were having summer camp meetings. I looked up at the cold dark sky and watched the snowflakes sparkle with light from the moon, or maybe it was from the streetlights. This was the night that separated my world into two halves. Before and after...

I grew up surrounded by strong Christians. My parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends all attended the little white church at the end of a little road in a little town on the east coast. I am forever grateful for my heritage. I believe it was this strong, faith-filled foundation that kept me. I remember, as a little girl of maybe four or five, walking down the dirt road to the corner store with my 25 cents and having a conversation with God. I told Him I was afraid of growing up to be a bad person. I wanted so very much to please Him and never disappoint Him. I prayed many times for God to help me be a good girl. Pretty heavy stuff for a five-year-old!

I remember the Sunday night I officially gave my heart to Jesus. I had been to church and Sunday School earlier that day and I heard about the importance of making a firm decision to be a follower of Christ. I was pondering this as I crawled into bed that night. Sitting there in the dark, wearing a pink flannel nightgown covered with teddy bears, I asked Jesus to come into my heart. Then I sang the song, "Come Into My Heart, Lord Jesus". I was seven. I got teased a lot by my friends and classmates for being so "good". In elementary school it was for not saying bad words, in junior high it was for not skipping school, in high school it was for not drinking, smoking or sleeping around. You guessed it! I didn't have many friends! From a very young age, I knew that my name meant 'pure one' and I would think of the verse from Matthew 5:8, "Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God." I wanted to keep my heart pure. I wanted to see God.

Now, you might be thinking, this kid is not for real! A child this perfect? Oh, I was far from perfect! Just ask my parents! I experienced all the normal growing pains, freaking out over pimples, fighting with my little brother, fighting with my best friends, puppy love, the 80's mullet, always needing to be right, always needing to be the best at everything, and did I mention fighting with my little brother? (He's my pastor now!)

As I finished up high school, I had one dream: to marry a pastor, be the perfect little pastor's wife and have two or three perfect little pastor's kids. That was it. I wanted nothing more out of life. And I was ready for it. I could teach Sunday School, sing, play guitar, speak in front of a crowd, pray up a storm, cook, bake, clean, sew, hem pants and iron shirts. Move over Martha Stewart because here I am! Unfortunately, I expected everyone else in my world to be just like me and live up to the expectations that I set for myself. I was dumbfounded when a friend admitted she didn't know how to boil potatoes. I was shocked, yes even horrified, if some of them made wrong choices and reaped the consequences in plain view of the rest of the world. There was no grace for imperfection. There was no compassion for brokenness. Mistakes were stupid. I was perfectly set up for disappointment.

Then came the night it snowed in August. After the last service of the week, one of the keynote speakers took me aside. He had watched me all week as I sang and as I prayed with people at the altar. He had tears in his eyes as he looked at me. He then uttered the words that split my world in two. "Cathy, when you leave this place there will be a lot of tears. A lot. But after that, God is going to give you joy." That night I could not possibly fathom the journey I would travel, the deserts I would cross or the events that would cause me to be numbered with the rest of broken humanity.

My story from this point forward is far too long to put into a blog post. It involves seventeen years of stories and lessons learned. Stories that involve an abusive marriage, loss, injustice, depression, praying for death, and true to the words uttered by that preacher many years ago, a lot of tears. I would often say that if God collects my tears in a bottle, then there is an ocean in Heaven with my name on it. Unlike many stories I've heard at conferences or read in books of survival and healing that come complete with a happy ending, my story is not yet complete. Yes, I am a survivor; yes, my heart has been healed; yes, I am no longer broken; yes, I have shared my story with others and encouraged them with the story of God's restoration; yes, I am walking in faith [trying] to smile at the future. But I am still waiting for the promise.

Someday, you will be browsing through the shelves at your local bookstore and you will notice a book. There will be a young girl on the front cover. She will be dancing in the puddles with a smile on her face. The sun will be shining through the falling rain. Mourning into Dancing.

Hannah's Song

A very long time ago there was a woman named Hannah. She lived in an era that to be childless meant one was cursed by God. As she walked to the markets to buy food and as she made her way to the temple to pray, she could hear the whispers in the shadows of the afternoon sun. Pity. Rumours. After all, she must have done many things to displease Yahweh. For what other reason would this curse have fallen on her? No heir for her husband. To make matters worse, Elkanah had taken it upon himself to bring home a second wife to fulfill the purpose that should have been hers. Babies. How the sound of those little ones caused such agony in her spirit, year after year. The daily taunts from 'the other one' were like daggers straight through her heart - except worse. A dagger through the heart would bring death. No, this was worse than death. Sometimes she prayed for death to come while she slept. But Yahweh had forgotten her so many years ago. No one around her understood what it was like to be her. No one. Everyone had advice to give, coupled with a meaningless bit of consolation - all of the pat answers that surface when no one really knows what to say. Yes, her friends truly felt sorry for her, but went away thankful that it was Hannah instead of them.

Years later, Hannah's situation had not changed. Time's passing did not make the anguish disappear. It was ever before her. Sunrise to sunset. The very dream that had been hidden in her heart refused to die. She wished it would die. Wouldn't that be easier? If only she could forget the dream. But no. Every morning as she rose, it was still there. The harsh words of 'the other one' echoed in the silence of every evening's twilight. "Who would ever want you now?" "You are unwanted, unloved, worthless." The tears began to spill, yet again. As she fell on her face at the altar of the Lord God Most High, heart completely broken, she prayed. Yahweh was her only hope of deliverance from this curse. Except the words would not come. The grief and pain ran so deep that linguistic expression could not be found. Forget the lofty rehearsed prayers laced with flowery language that could often be heard in the temple courts. This was desperation's cry - not intended for human ears.

As she rose from this tear-stained altar, she came face to face with the Lifter of her head. For the Word of God says she was no longer downcast. In this moment faith was born. This is where worship sang its first melody. In the face of despair, in the dust of wilderness wanderings, praise to the God Who Hears rose up from within her soul.

And then the promise came...

Created

An article one morning on CNN arrested my attention. An 11-year-old boy, a victim of bullying, hung himself in his bedroom. As my heart broke for the family of that young boy, and as I struggled to say a prayer for this family, one word rang in my spirit. CREATED. Did he know that? Did his school teach him that he was created by a Divine Creator for a divine purpose? Probably not.

I recently finished a biology course and there was one central theme that had been stressed and stressed and stressed again. I am not created by divine design. I am indeed a product of green algae. Yes, my great, great...great granddaddy was pond scum. What a great heritage, don't you think? Righteous anger would well up from inside of me. At the top of my lecture notes I would write, "In the beginning, God..." I never wanted to forget even for a moment that I was here by divine design, that the Creator of the universe breathed life into me.

If I did not realize that my professors were teaching the opposite of truth, I would not place much value on my life. I would equate my very existence with pond scum. Not worth much. Not destined for greatness. No divine purpose. Just an accident. A few amino acids and carbohydrates that accidentally ran into each other one day. Actually, according to Dr. Scott, the most derived and successful species are arthropods. So not only am I product of pond scum, I am also less valuable than a grasshopper.

I am convinced there would be less suicide, less depression, less anger, less pain inflicted upon humanity if we were never taught biology in school. Then when those tough days show up on our doorstep, we would know who we really are. We would know who our Daddy is. We would walk with our heads held high, in confidence, and smile at the future.

So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them. Genesis 1:27 [NIV]

The Unknown Blogger

Hello...ummm...me? I cannot say "Hello everyone" because I have no audience! Ah, minor details! I plan to write books someday and Lisa TerKeurst says to start a blog to gain an audience so a publisher will give you a contract. By the way, she is my new favourite blogger/author/speaker. Check her out at Proverbs 31: http://lysaterkeurst.blogspot.com/

Okay, I'm staring at a blank space. This whole first impression thing is a bit intimidating. I may need a moment...

I guess an introduction is in order. My name is Cathy with a 'C', although I did go through a stage in junior high where I spelled it with a 'K' and confused all my teachers. Today they'd probably put you in counselling for that. That reminds me of the time when I was in grade two. I signed one of my tests as Kathleen. I read a book and the girl's name was Kathleen so I thought that should be my new name. I believe my mom got a phone call from my teacher. Maybe we all go through stages where we wish we could be someone else. That's a story for another day.

I am currently a full time university student and part time practical nurse. I have a week off from studying which is probably why I felt the need to write something. I have just finished year one of a four year nursing degree. People think I'm so brave to go back to school at my age. I tell them school is easier than the real world :) (In case you're wondering, I'm 36.)

In my spare time I like to write, read books, sing, cook, bake, sew, rescue orphans, feed the hungry...I've never been bored a day in my life. I have a million stories in my head and a few more in a stack of journals that I found yesterday while searching for the CPR book, which I never found. Sometimes the urge to write is so strong. I may not have even an inkling of what I want to write about but when I sit down in a quiet place or an inspiring coffee shop, God speaks. I learn more about who I am, what's going on in my heart and sometimes I catch a glimpse of who God really is. So really, this blog is not for you at all! However, if my rambling encourages another person on the planet, that's okay with me.

So friend, welcome to the Mourning into Dancing blog.