It's a Matter of When

I am not an alcoholic but I'm pretty sure I could be. In my blood runs the stuff of addiction. Case in point: My way-back-when relative named Sterling rode a horse off a cliff due to alcohol’s deathgrip.

~~~

Years ago I heard the Spirit’s whisper to not be drunk (with wine). I obeyed for the most part, except for that one birthday. I woke the next morning my head obnoxiously pained, my mouth potty paper dry, my world a Tilt-a-Whirl.

            I squinted at my face in the bathroom mirror. “How did I get home?”

            Furtively. Illegally.

            “No one asked if you were okay to drive,” someone, something defended.

            How many times did I do that very thing in my early years? Drink . . . drive . . . regret . . . swear off . . . Well, maybe just one. It's rare now, but still . . .

~~~

In vino veritas the saying goes, but really, I don’t even need the wine. Words rush and tumble out of me without liquid assistance, but introduce alcohol, caffeine even, and my tongue’s audacity quadruples. More often than not, it's been my careless, fluid speech I lament the most. 

~~~

I pencil a pro and con list. The  pro row is pitiful. The against column is pregnant, late term for sure. All I can praise is taste and relaxation. I speed read the cons: killer headaches, gnarly stomach, embarrassment, calories, hypocrisy, embarrassment, sugar (another familial issue), the risk of losing everything. There wasn't much to lose before, but now?

            “I should just quit,” I told my cappuccino one morning. “Forever.”

            “Then why don’t you?” something, someone in the house whispered.

~~~

My mother’s vice is sweets.

            “Come into the kitchen with me,” she says after supper.

            I watch as she feeds the leftover peach cobbler to the garbage disposal. Wince as stainless steel blades gobble the treat. I almost ask why but I know full well why. What I wrestle with is how. And when.

No-Hell-Boy

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.”

++I Pity the Fool++

   

Psalm 53:1 tells us, "The fool says in his heart, there is no God."  That scripture makes me feel like a small, white, female Mr. T.  I read it and think, "I pity the fool."


One time I sat in an adult Sunday school class and the teacher said, "If you think God comes to you in dreams in the bathtub, you are certifiably crazy."  I never went back.  Know why?  'Cause I don't see dead people.  I see God.

I see visions of me on a potting table made of old barn wood, with a one inch lip on all four sides for my fluids, just in case.  It's out in an open field and the sun is a brilliant yellow white.  I look like a life-sized, girl version of the board game, Operation.

God stands next to the potting bench.  His hands work inside me.  Tweeking a spleen.  Polishing a wishbone.  My friend I ask God questions to said it reminded her of this one part in Song of Solomon.  I love the translation that reads, "You are my private garden, my treasure, my bride, a secluded spring, a hidden fountain."

Another time, I watched God hold my heart.  Actually, I just saw his hand.  It looked like the giant hand chairs outside the Cool Ridge store on High Street.  My body's engine was nestled in his ginormous palm and it was huge too--beating, throbbing.  Ba-boom, ba-boom.  ba-boom.  And it was aqua.  God knows aqua is my favorite color.

When I consider God, it's like I have to set off an M-80 in my brain.  Not to hurt it, but to clear out the junk--the recipes, pin numbers, and vocab lists from high school.  I have to do that to even begin to think on God.  He made and he knows every person--past, present, and future.  He is aware of every thought, prayer, and deed they will ever come up with before they ever do.  He intimately perceives the detail of every creature, each cell.  He knows the greatest thing beyond my peewee comprehension, and he knows the least thing ever--sub, sub, sub-atomic stuff.

Sometimes when I pray, I picture God and Jesus and heaven.  There was a lady mystic who did the same thing, centuries ago.  I read about her in an A.W. Tozer book.  I'm glad I'm not alone.  I spend a lot of time wondering if I'll be able to see the Spirit when I get to heaven.  Will He be a silvery aqua mist, hovering over us all?

Some believers poopoo me trying to envision God.  They say I'm trying to create my own God like that guy who wrote The Shack.  To them I say, am I so very different than Moses?  He wanted to see God too and Bible scholars call him great.  I just want to look at whatever God'll show me, even if it's his backside.

Sometimes I picture myself up in heaven with God and Jesus.  I sit criss-cross applesauce on the floor of the throne room.  In fact, I'm snuggled right up to them.  My left arm is looped around God's right leg, and my right arm hugs Jesus' left calf.  Don't ask me if their appendages are flesh, spirit, or polished bronze.  They just are.  God and Jesus pet my hair as I take it all in--endless worship, passionate intercession.  Folks are flinging crowns and those wild, flying creatures--all eyeballs, wings, and praise?  I come undone.

One time--  No, there's been lots, Jesus asked me to dance.  We waltzed on the crystal sea.  Perhaps it was the Sea of Galilee.  When we dance I'm a cross between a kindergartner and an eighth grader at her first dance.  The kindergartner part of me stands on my daddy's feet to be taller, to let him lead.  The eighth grader in me laces my fingers behind my date's neck and melts against him, longing to be one.  And then the best thing happens.  A hole opens in my chest and his.  My heart beats inside him and his heart beats inside me.  We are one.

I'm not making this stuff up.  I saw it all with the eyes of my heart.  It's not imagination or fantasy as some will no doubt say.  Those people who put God in a wet matchbox?  I pity them too.