Friday, October 28, 2011


I know some think he’s awful. That he’ll probably go to hell. After all, he says there is no such place. Insists there’s no way, no how a loving God would condemn all naysayers to languish in the lake of fire ever more. Proves his point with plucked phrases like "He desires none to perish” and “He’s making all things new.” Etcetera.
            Let me tell you something. God can do anything. Use anyone. For his purposes. For his kingdom. When I listened to no-hell-boy teach the parable of the unmerciful servant, I was pierced. Crushed. For my transgressions. For the lack of forgiveness (and honor) I have shown my own mother.
            After I said I do to the ultimate bridegroom, I went through the world doling out forgiveness to everyone. Like trick-or-treat candy. Freely. With a winsome smile. “Here. Take some more.” To everyone but the woman who groaned me into existence. Gnashed her teeth through my unruly and mean-spirited adolescence. So much almost-black, close to redemption-is-impossible in that house.
            But the God of new mercies daily broke through anyway. Found the crack under the garage door only the pill bugs knew. Ascended to live with us. One at a time. Four down, two to go, except one already went. Away.
            She was last. My mother. My sister in the faith. I extended my left hand to welcome her to God’s family. Grimaced when the fingernails on my right hand bit into my palm. Made a wound there. Which I ignored. I refused to drop the everything-bad-in-my-life-is-because-of-you rock. To the ground.
            For years when the Spirit prompted, “You should—“ I interrupted. “I’m sorry, God. You can’t go into that one room in my heart basement. Seems I misplaced the key.”
            Then no-hell-boy taught what he taught. And I wept. Through blind no more eyes. Fell to the floor. Slow blinked at the ceiling with drenched eyes. I held up my pointer finger.        
           “Give me just a second, Lord. To take off this mask. To wipe away this white paint.”
            I stood. Wobbled. “I need to go downstairs. And outside. So I can hurl this stone. Far, far, away.”



This post has given me pause - have to think about it some more.
Interesting - thought provoking.
It's a good thing when we write something that requires us to think. To use our own brains to make the connections. It's what links writer to reader.
Thanks much!

writingdianet said...

Yes, Barb:
There is definitely some think-about stuff here. Thought it might spark a discussion, but so far, it's just you and me. Ponder. Consider. Reflect.


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