“Measure twice, cut once,” they say.
That philosophy has simply never stuck with me—just one of the reasons why I would not make a very good carpenter. Or surgeon. Or pharmacist.
I lack precision, I love to estimate, and yes Mom, I can be a tad on the scatterbrained side.
Surely you all agree that you wouldn’t want me to be the brain behind the knife, then.
Or the one doling out potentially deadly combinations of medications.
Or building your cabinets. (Somehow that last one just doesn’t have the zing of the other two…)
Plotting one’s direction in life isn’t easy. It seems ridiculous that by the ripe old age of 18, when all you really care about is finding a prom dress and having cute senior pictures made, you are expected to know beyond a shadow of a doubt what chore you will want to spend the next 50 years of your life doing.
Yet decide I did, and now here I am, for better or for worse.
We humans are such diverse creatures. We arrive with unique goals, talents and shortcomings, and we fill equally diverse roles here on Earth.
I can’t help but marvel at God’s design, beautifully organic yet painstakingly precise—and bigger than life.
(For if it was me creating the earth and crafting hearts, I would have messed up my measurements, gotten frustrated and abandoned the project.)
"Now may the Lord direct your hearts into the love of God and into the patience of Christ."
2 Thesalonians 3:5
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
It's not about me.
Words are failing me tonight. The perfect story seems just beyond my grasp.
So, for today, all I offer are the words inspired by One far greater than I—words that sing of truth.
“When I came to you, brothers, I did not come with eloquence or superior wisdom as I proclaimed to you the testimony about God. For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. I came to you in weakness and fear, and with much trembling. My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit's power, so that your faith might not rest on men's wisdom, but on God's power.
We do, however, speak a message of wisdom among the mature, but not the wisdom of this age or of the rulers of this age, who are coming to nothing. No, we speak of God's secret wisdom, a wisdom that has been hidden and that God destined for our glory before time began. None of the rulers of this age understood it, for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory. However, as it is written:
"No eye has seen,
no ear has heard,
no mind has conceived
what God has prepared for those who love him"
— but God has revealed it to us by his Spirit.
The Spirit searches all things, even the deep things of God. For who among men knows the thoughts of a man except the man's spirit within him? In the same way no one knows the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God. We have not received the spirit of the world but the Spirit who is from God, that we may understand what God has freely given us. This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, expressing spiritual truths in spiritual words. The man without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him, and he cannot understand them, because they are spiritually discerned. The spiritual man makes judgments about all things, but he himself is not subject to any man's judgment:
"For who has known the mind of the Lord that he may instruct him?"But we have the mind of Christ.”
--1 Corinthians 2
Here, Paul pours out his heart to the people of Corinth—acknowledging his faults, explaining his motives and expressing his desire to serve Christ. Like Paul, I come not with eloquence or superior wisdom. Anyone who knows me can testify to that. But I do come with a desire to serve, a desire to honestly say:
“My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, so that your faith might not rest on men’s wisdom, but on God’s power.”
1 Corinthians 2: 4-5
So, for today, all I offer are the words inspired by One far greater than I—words that sing of truth.
“When I came to you, brothers, I did not come with eloquence or superior wisdom as I proclaimed to you the testimony about God. For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. I came to you in weakness and fear, and with much trembling. My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit's power, so that your faith might not rest on men's wisdom, but on God's power.
We do, however, speak a message of wisdom among the mature, but not the wisdom of this age or of the rulers of this age, who are coming to nothing. No, we speak of God's secret wisdom, a wisdom that has been hidden and that God destined for our glory before time began. None of the rulers of this age understood it, for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory. However, as it is written:
"No eye has seen,
no ear has heard,
no mind has conceived
what God has prepared for those who love him"
— but God has revealed it to us by his Spirit.
The Spirit searches all things, even the deep things of God. For who among men knows the thoughts of a man except the man's spirit within him? In the same way no one knows the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God. We have not received the spirit of the world but the Spirit who is from God, that we may understand what God has freely given us. This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, expressing spiritual truths in spiritual words. The man without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him, and he cannot understand them, because they are spiritually discerned. The spiritual man makes judgments about all things, but he himself is not subject to any man's judgment:
"For who has known the mind of the Lord that he may instruct him?"But we have the mind of Christ.”
--1 Corinthians 2
Here, Paul pours out his heart to the people of Corinth—acknowledging his faults, explaining his motives and expressing his desire to serve Christ. Like Paul, I come not with eloquence or superior wisdom. Anyone who knows me can testify to that. But I do come with a desire to serve, a desire to honestly say:
“My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, so that your faith might not rest on men’s wisdom, but on God’s power.”
1 Corinthians 2: 4-5
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Granddaddy's Last Stand
Russian tea simmered on the stove, filling the house with its citrusy-sweet smell. Shiny packages lined the floor around the towering tree. The great-grandchildren laughed and played, all while speculating about what Santa might bring.
It was a Harbison family Christmas Eve, steeped in family tradition and full of love, but last year, a shadow lingered in all of our hearts.
Granddaddy was weak and growing weaker by the day, and our human hearts could not help but compose a single painful question: Would this Christmas be his last?
It was.
Granddaddy died on May 26 of this year, a story I shared with you a few weeks back. Now, as my family and I look ahead toward the holiday season that is stretched out before us, we are filled with a chorus of mixed emotions. This time last year, we were investing time by his side—holding his hand, sharing our hearts, and soaking up what we feared would be his ‘last’ this and his ‘last’ that.
And before I dare begin wrapping my heart about what will be, I can’t help but glance into the past and record the precious moments of that Christmas Eve—moments that I remember as his last stand, his last great moment of courage.
Christmas Eve fell on Sunday last year, and my brother Jason was asked to sing a solo at the morning worship service. By this time, Granddaddy had been bedridden for months. His disease had taken hold, robbing of him of the ability to do the simplest of things. No one expected him to make it to the service—I don’t even know how long it had been since he was physically able to make it to church.
Oh, how we underestimated the will and the courage of Derlan Avis Harbison.
Delightfully stubborn, my Granddaddy was nothing if not strong-willed. When he set his mind upon something, by golly, he was going to do it.
He set his mind upon hearing my brother sing at church for one final time. And he did.
Grandmother bundled him up in his warmest sweaters, and the men of the family hoisted him into his wheelchair and then into the car and on to my church, First Baptist Church of Holly Pond.
My most treasured moments of last Christmas are of that precious morning service. Our family filled a pew, and I sat proudly by my Granddaddy, holding his hand and watching his expressions. I watched the growing pride in his eyes as he listened to Jason sing. I watched members of the congregation, many who had not seen him in months and months, flock to his side. Tears slipped down my cheeks—an overflow of the thankfulness that was echoing in my heart.
I know Christmas is several weeks away, but my heart can’t help but look ahead and wonder what is to come. Our celebration will not be the same without Granddaddy, but the heart of Christmas remains the same—a rejoicing over the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ. We will hurt and miss him, and I am sure that we will cry.
But we will also laugh and drink Russian tea and play Pictionary and talk babytalk to the tiniest of our family.
Granddaddy wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
It was a Harbison family Christmas Eve, steeped in family tradition and full of love, but last year, a shadow lingered in all of our hearts.
Granddaddy was weak and growing weaker by the day, and our human hearts could not help but compose a single painful question: Would this Christmas be his last?
It was.
Granddaddy died on May 26 of this year, a story I shared with you a few weeks back. Now, as my family and I look ahead toward the holiday season that is stretched out before us, we are filled with a chorus of mixed emotions. This time last year, we were investing time by his side—holding his hand, sharing our hearts, and soaking up what we feared would be his ‘last’ this and his ‘last’ that.
And before I dare begin wrapping my heart about what will be, I can’t help but glance into the past and record the precious moments of that Christmas Eve—moments that I remember as his last stand, his last great moment of courage.
Christmas Eve fell on Sunday last year, and my brother Jason was asked to sing a solo at the morning worship service. By this time, Granddaddy had been bedridden for months. His disease had taken hold, robbing of him of the ability to do the simplest of things. No one expected him to make it to the service—I don’t even know how long it had been since he was physically able to make it to church.
Oh, how we underestimated the will and the courage of Derlan Avis Harbison.
Delightfully stubborn, my Granddaddy was nothing if not strong-willed. When he set his mind upon something, by golly, he was going to do it.
He set his mind upon hearing my brother sing at church for one final time. And he did.
Grandmother bundled him up in his warmest sweaters, and the men of the family hoisted him into his wheelchair and then into the car and on to my church, First Baptist Church of Holly Pond.
My most treasured moments of last Christmas are of that precious morning service. Our family filled a pew, and I sat proudly by my Granddaddy, holding his hand and watching his expressions. I watched the growing pride in his eyes as he listened to Jason sing. I watched members of the congregation, many who had not seen him in months and months, flock to his side. Tears slipped down my cheeks—an overflow of the thankfulness that was echoing in my heart.
I know Christmas is several weeks away, but my heart can’t help but look ahead and wonder what is to come. Our celebration will not be the same without Granddaddy, but the heart of Christmas remains the same—a rejoicing over the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ. We will hurt and miss him, and I am sure that we will cry.
But we will also laugh and drink Russian tea and play Pictionary and talk babytalk to the tiniest of our family.
Granddaddy wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Believing without seeing
Imagine a world painted black—robbed of light, color and shape. Imagine stepping blindly through that world, feeling your way as you move cautiously through a crowd. Imagine relying solely on hearing and smell and touch and other people for your survival.
Imagine. I’m trying.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, as I stroll from Spanish class to mi dormitorio, I breathe in life. I watch ruby red leaves fall to the sidewalk. I try not to step on the cracks. I smile and wave at friends. Nothing spectacular, just a normal, average, regular-old slice of life.
On that path, I also encounter the same set of people every Tuesday. The same old people, strolling to the same old classes, clutching the same old books. But two of them always catch my eye and inspire my admiration.
They’re blind.
The first gentleman walks alone, tapping out his path with a pole. The second holds the arm of a friend as he makes his way to class.
Each time I see them, my thoughts whir into the same circle of thoughts. What bravery, what courage, what faith it must take for these men to venture out into a busy, busy world that they cannot even see. . .
The concept of blindness terrifies me. I cannot imagine stepping tentatively into darkness, into a world where everyone else sees all that I do not. Blindness is a state of being that I can only imagine, but for so many, it is reality. Yet still they overcome. I admire their bravery, and I can’t help but be reminded of my faith in God.
Walking in faith can often feel like walking blindly—believing without seeing, trusting without proof.
I don’t know where this life of reckless faith in God will lead me, but I’m ready to follow. I don’t hold all the answers to life’s toughest questions in my hands. Not even close, but that is okay by me. I wonder and I doubt, certainly, but at the end of the day, I open my eyes and soak up the beauty of His vast creation.
And then I close them to tell Him so.
"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."
Hebrews 11:1
Imagine. I’m trying.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, as I stroll from Spanish class to mi dormitorio, I breathe in life. I watch ruby red leaves fall to the sidewalk. I try not to step on the cracks. I smile and wave at friends. Nothing spectacular, just a normal, average, regular-old slice of life.
On that path, I also encounter the same set of people every Tuesday. The same old people, strolling to the same old classes, clutching the same old books. But two of them always catch my eye and inspire my admiration.
They’re blind.
The first gentleman walks alone, tapping out his path with a pole. The second holds the arm of a friend as he makes his way to class.
Each time I see them, my thoughts whir into the same circle of thoughts. What bravery, what courage, what faith it must take for these men to venture out into a busy, busy world that they cannot even see. . .
The concept of blindness terrifies me. I cannot imagine stepping tentatively into darkness, into a world where everyone else sees all that I do not. Blindness is a state of being that I can only imagine, but for so many, it is reality. Yet still they overcome. I admire their bravery, and I can’t help but be reminded of my faith in God.
Walking in faith can often feel like walking blindly—believing without seeing, trusting without proof.
I don’t know where this life of reckless faith in God will lead me, but I’m ready to follow. I don’t hold all the answers to life’s toughest questions in my hands. Not even close, but that is okay by me. I wonder and I doubt, certainly, but at the end of the day, I open my eyes and soak up the beauty of His vast creation.
And then I close them to tell Him so.
"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."
Hebrews 11:1
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