Windchimes

Before you read this, if you haven't already, go back and read the first part of this story...otherwise this next part will be a little confusing. Here is the link:

http://capturing-your-heart.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-visitor.html

When I was in Romania three years ago, the family I was staying with had given me an upstairs room, and there was a window that opened to a view of the city's rooftops. In the house across the way, there was a little garden in the back yard, and among it's flowers and vegetables, there was a cherry tree. On one branch hung a set of windchimes, and the soft melody they played was like a constantly evolving symphony composed by Tinkerbell herself. It was such a comforting sound, and one that I have always loved.

Windchimes, that is. I remember my grandmother had several sets strung under the eaves of her porch when I was a little boy, and so their sound evokes a sense of wistful melancholy. A sadness that you can't help but love, if that makes sense. So it was that part of me that dropped $25 on a set one day at a little garden supply store.

There they are. "Festival Wind Chimes" (The only difference is the set I bought was gold instead of green.) I remember walking into that garden supply store only for the purpose of buying some vegetable plants, and there was a set of those chimes hanging in the doorway. Their sound was magnificent...much more resonant than the little cheap sets I'd seen under my grandmother's porch. A large air circulation fan was keeping the store cool, and also creating a constant breeze that kept the chimes in constant motion. I stared at them for a few minutes, and the shop owner said "Pretty, aren't they? We've got them on sale right now, half price. Regular $49.99 on sale for $24.99."

I had to have them!

I asked the clerk if I could have the set in the window, and he said that was fine. He unboxed another set, hung them up in the same place, and took the set I'd been looking at and carefully put them back in the box. I went home, so excited for my porch to now be filled with the sounds I'd heard both in Romania, and in that store just hours earlier.

Boy, was I in for a shock when I hung them up. The chimes didn't move. They stood as motionless as in the stock photo above. I had hung them under the eave of the porch just like my grandmother had, but even though there was a gentle breeze that day, those chimes never moved. I blew on them, and they moved a little...but that was it. Twenty-five bucks down the drain. Of course, I realized that the store had a fan blowing them, but I was not about to put a fan out on my porch and waste electricity just so those stupid chimes would move. So for almost three years now, all they have done is hang there...motionless.

Motionless...until a few days ago, that is. I did a little research, and discovered something: Windchimes are actually a neat little invention. For example, the chimes themselves are actually called "tubes". The little wooden piece that hits the chimes is called the "striker", and that piece that hangs down is called the "sail". What you make the tubes out of (plastic, wood, copper, steel, etc) will determine how the chimes sound. Different types of metal will also create a different sound, as will how they hang by their strings, and what the striker is made from.

We're only going to concern ourselves with the part called "the sail", though. The sail can be made of many different materials, but it's important that the sail be light, and be flat. If the sail isn't light, wind won't be able to move it. If the sail isn't flat, it might move, but not very much.

The sail on my chimes was flat, but it wasn't light at all. It was a chunk of solid oak. It was pretty to look at, but not very functional. I had to make a decision at that point. I either had to get rid of this pointless, heavy sail, or be content with my chimes never making a sound. I thought about it, and gave in. I took the chimes down, cut off the original sail, and made a new one. This one wasn't pretty at all; it was actually made from a piece of plastic sheeting. I'd cut out a square of it, tied it onto the chimes, and hung the chimes back in the same place as before.

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MUSIC!

Going back to my last blog post from before: I have worn a coat of anger, grief, blame, regret, and mourning for almost three years now. I kept it hidden away under a mantle of decorative oak, unwilling to part with it because of how much I had paid for it. I felt like every day that went by where I donned that sorrow anew was valuable, and to let go of it would mean I had given up the thing it had cost me.

My anger was valuable. My blame was strong. My regret was essential. My mourning was necessary.

Only when I realized that the oaken "sail" on my windchimes was expensive and useless, was I able to come to grips with the idea that a cheap, plain sail would actually make my chimes sing. The first step is realizing you've endured a problem for way too long. The next step is recognizing you are better off without it.

Then you have to take off the coat. You have to snip off the old wooden sail. You have to eliminate the idea of "What will other people think?" and realize that unless your sail is light, you'll never be able to make music again. What good is your life without the music you were meant to play?

My first realization: What others think about me in ways that don't matter (such as, in whether or not I wear a tie, drive a new or old car, live in the city or the country, or create art that doesn't fit the "mold") does not matter any more, no matter how much I might care about what they think. Only God matters. That's where freedom begins.

I'm still wearing my coat of anger. I'm not going to pretend the problem is gone. Along the way, other things have happened to me that strengthened that anger, and made me want to lash out at others...even made HATE set in toward some people. People who I felt didn't see how much I was suffering before throwing another coat of mourning over my shoulders.

If you are one of those people who may have seen a flash of that come out against you, I'm so deeply sorry.

Please be patient with me. This is an ongoing journey. And all it took was one knock at the door three years ago.

The Visitor

Three years ago, I was going about my life when an unexpected visitor came knocking at my door. The visitor didn't avail himself when I was in a bad mood or was going through a rough time. (In fact, the days prior to his arrival were filled with joy and promise.) This visitor however, carried chaos in his wake. I opened the door at his friendly knock, and he stood there with a coat under his arm and a smile on his face.

"Hello." he said "Nice to meet you. My name is Anger. Can we talk a moment?"

I must have looked confused, so he said "Terribly sorry, you seem a bit dazed. If you'll just put on this coat, it will become more clear."

I took the jacket from him, and saw a strange tag sewn under the collar. In bright red letters, it read "Blame."

I donned the jacket, and I must say, it fit perfectly. In fact, at that moment, you would have had to wrestle me to the ground if you wanted me to part with it.

Anger said "Goodness me, what a perfect fit...but just look at me, I've completely forgotten to show you it's accessories."

He reached into a carpet bag, and produced a muffler that looked so plush and warm. It matched the jacket perfectly. It looked to be hand-knitted from the finest wool, and woven into the longest end was a single word: "Regret". Anger wrapped it around my neck (a bit tightly for my taste), but truly this was a match like no other in men's fashion.

Anger then took off his own gloves, and said "Can't let you go without these, now can I?" I pulled their supple leather onto my hands, and the warmth and softness was like the deepest luxury a man could experience. Glancing at the stitching along the wrists, I could just make out the name of the manufacturer:  "Mourning".

"That's strange." I said out loud. "Has someone passed away?"

"Oh, quite not." Anger said. "Mourning does not require a death to take place. All it takes is a deep, personal loss. Sometimes, one can even mourn the person they themselves were before the loss took place."

"I see." I said "Well, these are quite nice. All of it is, but I can't afford a wardrobe like this."

Anger smiled and said "Oh, these are complimentary, Sir. I must warn you though, you'll never take them off." and with that, Anger tipped his hat as though he was about to depart. Suddenly, he said "You know, you could definitely use this hat as well."

He took off his hat, and handed it to me. Sewn into the brim was his own name "Anger".

I put the hat on, and a powerful flood of emotions swept over me. I wanted to let out a primal scream of pain, but instead, I hung my head low, turned back inward, and locked the door to the world outside. I was completely under Anger's control.

As the years went on, the coat, scarf, gloves and hat grew heavier and heavier, but I always kept my best face on for those around me as I wore them. Only my closest family saw the weight I was carrying. I pretended to smile when I encountered others, and always did my best to seem happy and full of joy, (as I always had been before Anger's visit), but something new was in my heart now. It lived in me every day.

Anger. Blame. Regret. Mourning.

I didn't like people anymore. Especially adults, like myself. I felt like everyone was waiting to throw another coat over my shoulders, or a scarf around my neck. I didn't trust anyone. Children were the only ones I really let in, because you never have to guess where you stand with a child.

Every night, as I lay down to sleep, I would think about the coat and scarf and gloves and hat. They hung at my bedside, and as soon as dawn broke and the sun rose, I would put them on again.

And thus it has been for three years.

Three long years.

It's a long time to wear this heavy, wearisome set of coordinates, and I would have worn it for who knows how much longer, with no hope of their release in sight.

It took a set of Windchimes to make me realize where the healing must begin.

To be continued...

Born This Way

I recently cut my friend list in half. More than half. I had a friend list of over 1200, and after removing people I never talk with, people who never talk to me, people I didn't remember meeting, people with a blank profile, and people who clearly friended me for no reason, I had whittled it down to around 650. When you trim your friend list like this, something interesting happens. People you haven't heard from in years begin popping up in your feed, and you see even more culling that needs to be done.

I'm now down to just over 500, and it's amazing how peaceful it is when you remove stuff from your life that unnecessarily burdens you. You also end up with more people who will actually care about what you post.

With that being said, let me open this up with this:

This sentiment is often shared on social media. Women are usually the ones to share this quote. Their girlfriends will see it and give them encouragement. Their girlfriends understand. Their guy friends understand also. "She's a woman. She has a right to feel things deeply. That's what women do."

But I have news for you. Guys can be like this also. There are men out there that (like me) feel everything to their very core. If a little kid comes up to them and hands them a flower and says "You're my best friend.", on the outside we smile, but on the inside we are weeping tears of pure joy. Our heart cries out constantly, and it literally cannot be turned off. The world expects men to be able to hide this, though...and if you can't, then you are often labeled as "gay", "effeminate", "weird", or even mentally unstable.

So what do you do when the world expects you to be one way (as social morays dictate) but you are the exact opposite? The answer is simple: You hide. You don't let people in. You spend your life locked inside a mental prison. You don't dare open up to anyone fully, because it will end badly. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but in six months, or a year perhaps, you'll find yourself in a situation that if a woman were in, nobody would think twice about. They'd say "Ah, she's so loving. She has such a sweet heart and spirit. So thankful for her." But as a guy, you find yourself being suddenly ostracized, and when you ask "What's wrong?" you either directly (or indirectly) will have your sexuality or manhood questioned.

So what do we do? That's right, we hide. We withdraw. We gravitate to the tiny group of people who are like us, but even that doesn't work because none of us are truly comfortable with this aspect of our personality, and so meeting others reminds us of the hurt we hold inside. Like a reverse AA meeting, where instead of people with a common problem finding strength together, we are reminded of who we are, and it repulses us because the world has labeled us as mentally deviant from the societal norm.

If you've read this far (which I doubt most have...this blog was mainly for me to use as an outlet for my thoughts, not to share them with others) then I want to share one more thing.

I am an empath. I am the "NF" in Meyers-Briggs. I am in touch with my feminine side...very much so, and I am also straight as an arrow, sexually. I understand what women feel, I understand what children feel, and I don't distance myself mentally from either group...although I am respectful of the need to maintain a healthy physical distance from both.

What I am passionate about is people feeling free to embrace who they are in their heart.

Confession, here. I've cried thousands of times. I've cried a half dozen times in the past month, actually. And by that, I mean I've read or seen something that made tears well up in the back of my throat, and then instead of letting them flow, I push them back.

For example, after loving and reading these books over and over as a child, when I saw this scene play out in the theater when "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe" was released, I was an emotional basket-case. Little Lucy peered out from behind that silly lamp post, and when she spoke to Mr. Tumnus for the first time, I wept like a baby.

So now you've met me, and you know who I am, and what an emotional hell I go through in my daily life. It's hell, not because it's bad, but because societal morays label it as not appropriate and acceptable for a grown man. I love John Wayne movies as much as anyone, but his character on-screen ruined life for people like me. We feel weak, incomplete, broken, flawed, and most of our peers would say the same if they knew who we were inside.

I've even had people hate me because of this aspect of who I am. I won't go into that, though.

What I do know is that nobody "made" me this way. I wasn't abused as a child. My parents loved me, and they never did anything to hurt me, nor did any of my family, my teachers, or my friends. This is simply who I am.

Translation: I was born this way.

Let that idea sink in. I was born this way.

Like people who are a part of the LGBT community, this was not something I just woke up one morning and decided it might be fun to try. This has been a hard-wired part of my personality and my heart for as long as I can remember.

I was like this when I was 5 years old and my best friend was a girl and I was fighting feelings of being her best friend and wanting desperately to kiss her.

I was like this when I was 10 years old, and this little kid at my church told me that I was his brother now because his brother had died when he was younger and I reminded him of him...and I went home that night and cried into my pillow.

I was like this when I was 15 and I was writing to a girl 800 miles away that I had met on a pen-pal site, and more than anything I wanted to write her until we were both 100 years old. Because she got me.

I've been like this my entire life, and it's who I am. I've been told that this is to be hidden, to be ashamed of, that I am misunderstood, and that the world will not have a place for me as a man if I am this way.

That breaks my heart, but it's also something I will not change. I will not trim myself to fit the world.

And if you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender, I love you. I respect you. I identify with you in a way that the world has made me keenly aware of. Do I agree with everything you believe? Probably not, (because I like peanut butter on practically everything, and you probably don't)...but I still respect you. I recognize that you were born feeling this way, and nobody "made you gay" as people who don't understand like to call it.

If you are a member of the LGBT community, you don't have to be afraid of me. I understand. I won't unfriend you. In fact, I might become an even deeper friend if I knew.

On the other hand, if you are a gay-basher, or someone who thinks gays are going to hell because they are gay, or someone who thinks Jesus would hate gay people, or if YOU just hate the LGBT community out of bigotry or spite, please do me a favor right now.

It will only take a second.

Go to your social media account, find me, and click the button that says "Unfriend".

I wish everyone a blessed day.

P.S. -  This also applies if you hate people of different skin color. Ain't nobody got time for that, either.

The Stray

In a quiet neighborhood filled with quaint little houses of all shapes and sizes, there was a small stray dog with floppy ears. He was well on in years, but still had a lot of life left in his bones. He loved the smell of freshly cut grass, he loved to chase after tennis balls, but he loved nothing greater, nor desired anything more than the companionship of the elderly man who lived in the first house on the right.

Every day he would visit the little old man, and he knew there would always be a bowl of food waiting for him, and a scratch behind the ears followed by a "that's a good boy". It was his greatest joy of all.

One day, the little dog trotted up the little old man's walkway, but instead of being greeted in the usual way, a strange man walked out of the front door. He'd seen the man before, when the grandchildren had visited. The man looked sad, and carried his hat in his hands. The dog didn't know it, but the little old man had died in his sleep the night before, and the man he was looking at now was his son. The dog walked over to where his food bowl had always been, but it was empty. He picked it up in his mouth, and walked over to the son, dropping the bowl by his feet.

The man's demeanor changed immediately, and he kicked the dog as hard as he could saying "Get out of here you mutt!" One of the man's children suddenly appeared from around the side of the house, and said "Dad, no! It's just Pepper. He won't hurt anybody!" The little boy ran overt to the dog, and the dog met the boy with happy licks and jumps. The father ran to the dog with anger in his eyes, and snarled "Get out of here and don't come back!" The dog tucked his tail between his legs and ran, dodging rocks being hurled at him. One rock struck his back leg so hard he was knocked off his feet, but he managed to get back up and hobble away. He knew he would never be welcome at his home again.

He spent the night not under the carport of the little old man's house that night like usual, but in the woods behind the house, hidden from view. He saw lights on in the house, and he longed for the companionship he once had. That life was gone now, and nothing would bring it back. He decided the next morning he would try another place to see if anyone else would love an old dog like himself.

When the sunrise came, he woke and trotted down the street to another house. This one was smaller, but it was just as full of possibility. He made his way up the walkway, and before he could even cross the threshold of the patio, he heard a child's voice say "Look a dog! Maybe he needs a home!" Three more children followed, and before he was even aware of it, he was happily playing fetch with the four kids.

It seemed like the world would not be so bad after all, when the back door opened. A woman walked out and yelled "What are you doing? Where did that dog come from? He might have fleas! Get away from him!" Then a man appeared behind her with a pellet gun, and aimed it at the dog. The dog had never seen a gun before, but when the first red-hot sting hit his shoulder, he fled the yard with such speed that he never looked back at the children or the mother and father. All he heard was the man yell "Call animal control!"

That night, the dog slept in the same woods he'd used the night before, the world looked quite darker now, and with less promise of a new day tomorrow.

The next few days the dog did not reappear. He was afraid of what he might find, so he stayed hidden away in the grove of trees he's used night after night. He had never learned to find food in the woods, so as the days went by he grew hungrier and hungrier.

One morning, he was in such pain from days of hunger that he felt he must try again. He trotted down the road, scampering into the woods whenever a car would pass by. At a tiny house at the end of the cul-de-sac was a man in his front yard raking leaves. The man saw the dog, and how hungry he looked. He went into his house, found a bowl and some leftover chicken scraps from the day before, and walked back out to where the dog was standing. He held the bowl out to the dog, and the dog slowly walked forward. The dog could smell the chicken, sense the welcome relief from his hunger, and the promise of a new day ahead of him...

But at the last second, he remembered the "crack" of the large rock that had struck his back leg. He remembered anew the boot of the man who had kicked him, and the horrific memory of the bullet that had singed his shoulder days before. Without warning, he growled at the man and backed away. The man put the bowl down on the ground, and knelt down next to it, holding his hand out gently. The dog slowly approached the bowl, and began eating. The man carefully petted the dog's head, but instead of a wagging tail, the dog reacted with a jump, a savage growl, and bared teeth.

The man picked up the bowl, looked down at the dog and said "Crazy animal! What's your problem? I was only trying to feed you!"

The man walked back into the house, and the dog went back into the woods.

The only place where he knew what the score would be.

The Man With No Coat

A group of people were to attend a celebration dinner at a huge Victorian mansion. The dinner was being held to honor a man who had done great work for charity, including the homeless and the poor.

As the people in the party walked toward the mansion, one man in the group noticed a beggar just outside the gates holding a small tin cup. The beggar had no coat, and was shivering. The man took pity on the beggar, and took off his own coat and gave it to him. He then took off his tie as well, and gave it to him also. The beggar smiled, and said "May God bless you, sir."

As the group entered the mansion, the butler who was taking everyone's coats saw the man who had given up his coat, and said "Where is you coat and tie, sir?" The man with no coat explained he had given the coat and tie to the beggar outside the gate, and that he was fine without them. The butler sneered at the man, and said "You can't eat in the grand dining room of the Master's home without a coat and tie." The others who had come for the party frowned at him also, and promptly turned away from him.

The butler escorted the man with no coat to one of the bathrooms, and said he would be served there instead of at dinner. He locked the man with no coat inside. A little while later, the door was unlocked and a young servant boy came in with a platter of food. The food looked like it had been scraped from the plates of others, many items had bites taken out of them, and everything all was mixed together. The servant said "Enjoy your food.", then scraped all of it onto the floor at the man's feet. With a laugh, he walked out of the bathroom without locking the door back behind him.

The man without a coat was so confused, angry, and upset. All he had done was try to do a good thing, and now he was being treated like an outcast. He walked out of the bathroom, and followed the sounds of music and voices until he found the dining hall. As he walked in, he saw all the other party members laughing and making merry. They were busy enjoying cocktails and cake after dinner.

The man with no coat strode over to the couple who had originally organized the celebration for the Master of the house, and tried to confront them. One of them, a man with a coat and tie, pretended he did not see the man with no coat, and ignored everything he tried to say to him. So the man with no coat found the other person in charge, this one a woman, and when she behaved the same way, the man with no coat was so infuriated that he forgot himself, and yelled at the woman "Why are you doing this to me?!"

At that, everyone fell silent.

At the head of the table was the man who was being celebrated that day for his acts of charity. He  stood up, and walked over with an angry look in his eyes. He demanded to know "What is the meaning of all this?" After hearing everything, he looked at the man with no coat and said "You dare speak like this to a woman in my house, and my guest as well?"

The man with no coat was put in chains, and led to the bottom floor where he was locked in a cell. A short time later, the same food that had been scraped onto the bathroom floor was dumped at his feet again, this time by the jailer, landing just within the reach of the cell bars that held him. As the jailer walked away with his keys jingling in his hand, he turned and looked at the man with no coat and said:

"Honestly, sir. You can't just go giving your coat away."

Like Herding Cats

We have a cat, and his name is Rusty. He's 13 years old now, and for as long as I can remember, he has been afraid of me. 

It all goes back to ten years ago. A bad storm was coming through, and tornado sirens began going off. The word from the news station was a tornado had touched down less than a mile from our home. We lived in a manufactured house, so I wanted to leave until the storm passed. Our other cat quickly allowed herself to be scooped into her pet carrier. Rusty however, afraid of the storm, hid under our bed. I did everything I could to coax him out, but he refused to move. I finally made the choice between his life and his comfort, and I chased him out with a broom. For the next few minutes, I pursued him all over the house trying to get him into the carrier. He would dart under the table, then under the sofa, then back to the bed. There was no time for gentle, sweet words with a few cat treats in hand. He needed to be caught, and caught THEN. 

After chasing him all over the house numerous times, he was panting and beginning to drool. I finally threw a blanket over him and shoved him (kicking and clawing) into the pet carrier. We left quickly, and after a few hours away, the "all clear" had finally been given. The storm had passed. Rusty however, was permanently traumatized. He has never gotten over the man who chased him all over the house. Now, cats don't have memories like humans. He probably doesn't remember being chased by me, or the storm, or any of that. What he does believe, (and remember) is that for some reason, I am to be feared, and ultimately not trusted. He will climb up in my lap and allow himself to be petted if I am sitting down, but if I walk into the room, he will often dart away, looking back over his shoulder several times to make sure I am not in pursuit with a broom in hand. 

It occurred to me today during my quiet time that Rusty is a lot like we are as God's people. God saw the storm coming, and he said "Please, I'm trying to save you. You don't know what you are doing. You're going to be hurt. This is a dangerous thing you are heading toward. Please, I beg you. Come to me and be safe. I will make sure you are not harmed." Our reaction (all too often) is to run away from Him. We see his attempts to save us as being unpleasant, and we believe He is trying to take away our comfort. We are happy where we are, safely hidden under the bed. We have no idea the dangers that lurk outside our pitiful little "comfort zone". God sees the storm coming; he knows what will happen to us if he leaves us to our own means.

Consider this for a moment. If I had just given Rusty a bath, and when he got out of the bathtub I tried to dry him off, but he clawed away from me and ran under a table, that would be cause for me to say "Well, if he wants to run away, he can just be cold for a little while until he dries himself." God does this to us as well. If we want to go our own way, but it's not a HUGE mistake we are making, God will often let us run, so that through the process, we might learn what is best for us. Other times though, like the tornado coming through, God knows He must get us away, and get us away quickly.

Recently, God had to do this to me. He had to get me away. He knew I would not want to follow, and that I would hide under the bed. He was prepared for the chase, and he knew that when He caught me, that I would go clawing and kicking at Him before I would be safely carried away. He also knew that when I was finally home, the "home" would not look the same to me. It would be safer than it was during the storm, but I would be angry with Him for shoving me into my pet carrier when I would have preferred to stay in my little hidey-hole.

This is a teaching moment for me, and it should be one for all of us. Maybe you feel like God is trying to tear you up by the roots. Maybe you want to stay in your comfort zone, but His powerful arms are doing (what seems like) everything in His power to tear you away from the happy little place that you hold so dear. 

If this is you...if you hear this story and think "Wow, that's where I am right now. Holy Schnicklefritz!" then I want you to take heart. God's ways are higher. His mind is deeper. His heart is braver. And he is GOOD. 

Am I healed from my trauma? (You know, the one I mentioned earlier.) Well, like our cat, when things are calm and happy, I do love to hop up in God's lap and love on Him. Still, I am always on my guard. In my small mind, I'm afraid the same thing will happen again. So I am always looking over my shoulder, imagining monsters that aren't even there. God loves me enough to wait me out, though. The storm has passed, and He sits quietly, waiting for me to love Him without holding back.

In Psalm 3, David feels uncertain and afraid. But even in the face of all he has endured, he knows the power of God's arms, and the comfort of God's spirit:

"You, O Lord are a shield for me. My Glory, and the One who lifts my head up high." ~ Psalm 3:3 

We need not be afraid of His love. But part of being His child is that He will often protect you from a particular harmful situation at all costs. Maybe it's from a terrible financial move. Maybe it's from a person who means to do you harm. Maybe it's just from yourself. When those times happen, remember, His love remains no matter how much you may fight it. And when the storm passes, He is waiting to love you through the aftermath, and show you where He has taken you safely home.

Dear Wormwood

It has been a while since I have blogged. I remember one of my English teachers in high school said that she hated newspaper columnists because they were paid to write something every day, and so their words become forced instead of inspired. I never want that to happen when it comes to my art. Taking my photography from a hobby to a career has endangered my spontaneity behind the lens, and on more than one occasion this year I have considered closing  my business and going back to a "regular" job so that I can refocus my field of vision. (pun intended)


But that is neither here nor there. I wanted to talk about a few things that happened this year. In 2015, I have been tested in more than one way, and my own "Wormwood" has been having a field day in my heart. The Evil One has a battle plan for all of us, and our Wormwood is well-versed in pressing all the right buttons to make us feel broken beyond repair. Like C.S. Lewis in "The Screwtape Letters", I am imagining what The Enemy's strategy was. He knew the events that would occur in my life this year, and if I had to imagine his letter to my personal "Wormwood", (I don't want to know his real name.) I can imagine Screwtape writing him in this fashion:

"My Dear Wormwood, I have taken note of the things your man must endure this year, and while they could (if we lose our head) be used for his own betterment against us, if we are careful and play our game correctly, each of these events can be used for maximum pain and anguish in the heart and the mind. We can remind him of his mortality, his poor choices, his lack of reason, his unworthiness, and for good measure, we can use others around him to amplify these things. Never forget, Wormwood, that unlike so many others, your man has the terrifying advantage of knowing you exist. Most do not, but your man is very aware of you. He knows, Wormwood! Keep behind him, where he is most vulnerable, and you are best concealed.

Let's begin, Wormwood, with his health. This year he will have so many unexplained aches, pains, sicknesses, and general malaise that he will have ultimately felt like his warranty card ran out the moment he turned 41. Have him focus on those maladies, and deem them his death coming sooner than he ever imagined. In the spring, an event will occur to nail this idea homeward: He will have a mild heart attack. The next few weeks following will be a living nightmare of his own creation. He will be waiting for impending news of quadruple bypass, or even death. Have him focus on putting his affairs in order, and saying goodbye to everyone in his mind. Of course, he's not dying, but HE doesn't know that. We're not done with him by a long-shot, Wormwood. 

We're going to remind him of every opportunity in life he felt he was entitled to, and instead overlooked. We're going to bring back memories of what he could have done differently, and make him wish he could go back in time and change them so that he wouldn't have to endure them now. We're going to remind him of things he held so dear that are now out of reach, and make him feel so sick to his stomach that he wants to cry out in rage over those very things he has no control over. Naturally, the things we love the most are the things we hate to lose, so don't forget to remind him of the past--DAILY. He can't do a thing about the past, but we can make him dwell on it!

Now then, remember that little "spiritual journey" he went on in summer where he gave his life over to The One again? Well, we'll answer to that! Shortly after, we are going to unleash such a multitude of assaults that even if he does  appeal to his Creator, he will feel like his prayers are empty and futile. We must bare down hard and not lose our grip on him at this moment, lest our efforts totter and collapse. This could be the opportunity we have been waiting for since the vile creature left our camp and turned his life over to The One some twenty-three years ago. Remember your humiliation when he held hands with that half-wit and prayed that insipid prayer? You felt so helpless as you stood there, watching him give his life over to something greater than you! Remember that terrible day now. Harness that hatred and hammer it on him with both fists. Don't let him realize for one moment that this present atrocity might actually be a tool by The One who "loves him" to bring him a different kind of joy. Let him focus on the darkness, and make sure he allows just as much of that anguish to pour out on those around him...the ones he loves most.

Your man is an infant at heart. They all are, Wormwood. Envision your man as a child in his playroom, toys scattered about from corner to corner. He can't possibly play with them all at once. Now imagine his reaction when his father comes in and says that gift he loves most must be taken away because he left it lying on the stair for the third time in a row. Suddenly all the others matter very little, and the one that is being sacrificed becomes the most priceless treasure. Had he looked after it better, it might have not come to this, but a child does not see it this way. They only see the grievance. The child blames his father for the loss, of course. Make sure the man does the same. I will be in touch with your cousins who are in charge of so many "friends" around him to him to ensure they either support his anger, or make him feel like he is worthless. He may have true friends in his corner (You know who they are, Wormwood.) but have him focus on the opinions of his modern-day Eliphazes, Bildads, and Zophars. We've got a lot going for us with your man, let's not lose this golden opportunity given to us.

P.S. You mentioned in your letter his pet is dying. Make sure to maximize his mourning for it. We want his pain, Wormwood. Remember yourself. If you play your fiddle smartly, we can own his Christmas holiday as well.

Your affectionate uncle, Screwtape"

I'm not nearly as talented with the pen as C.S. Lewis, but I know my Wormwood very well. The past few weeks, he has been having a banquet at my own expense. I felt like I was fighting this battle all alone, and there was no end in sight. I prayed deeply for weeks, and only after my complete surrender, God answered. As usual, God has a way of answering in ways I never saw coming. He answered me in the voice of my wife. He answered me in the words of scripture in my daily bible study. He answered me from the pulpit last Sunday.

And, he answered me last night as I lie in bed.

It is that final answer I want to make sure I share with you. You may be suffering in a way that you feel is both unimaginable, and unmanageable. The walls may be collapsing all around you, and your heart may be in the process of being ripped to shreds. We try to take on our demons single-handed, and we fall. Oh, how we fall.

But back to that answer God gave me. Four years ago, my family began praying for a woman who lived halfway across the state. She was a friend of a friend, but in the years that followed, she became a part of our weekly life through prayer. Initially, she had gone to the hospital to have a baby, an event that should have been nothing but joy. While she was there, it was discovered that she had cancer. From a distance, and from our knees, we watched her battle this horrible affront to her body. She had good days, and bad days. She had moments that looked like it was beaten, and moments that seemed like she had been beaten. Prayers for this young woman spread far and wide as people who loved her shared her story with others in church and at home. Her young husband prayed for her. Her children prayed for her. I believe the very grass under her feet cried out to God for her healing.

But healing did not come. A few days ago, after four years of fighting, she lost her earthly battle with cancer. Those of us who kept up with her story knew how strong she had been, all the way until the end. I can't form words to emphasize who Kristi Casey was, but I do know who she IS. She is a victorious child of God, and she overcame.

She BEAT her disease.

She OVERCAME her Wormwood.

I can't even form words right now. Just...gah...I'm lost. Lost in His grace. I have so much to be thankful for in my home, in my heart, in my family...

And in this video that was taped of her just a short time ago, where she talks NOT about her cancer, but about having love and hope, I hope you will see what I saw.

Victory.