Preaching to myself

What can be said to confront - even help - people who say one thing but clearly mean another, over and over again? Not only that, add to the mix that they are accustomed to manipulation being their weapon of choice in those battlefields for control and power they attempt to dub as “friendships.”

This has spurred me on to thinking lately about the possible degrees of sociopathic thinking and behavior that maybe everyone goes through on a daily basis just because it‘s human nature: without considering the ramifications, we do whatever we feel like doing in order to get what we want from people, as long as it’s under the guise of “acceptable behavior,” don’t we? If we have strong enough idealistic convictions about some matter, we can get extremely “creative” (cruel and unusual, in fact) in our methods aimed toward obtaining a desired outcome. How often we abuse each other, my dear fellow human beings!

What a challenge, then, is grace; true, unfaltering, unselfish and loving grace, that is.

We all know how it feels to come to “the end” of ourselves, when somebody exhausts what feels like our full store of patience and endurance, exasperating us in our generally-shallow attempts to be understanding and kind - only as far as makes us feel accomplished and better than another, though, exerting what we feel to be the right amount of necessary common courtesy allotted to every person. We eventually reach a “persevering threshold,” beyond which we ultimately only want to yell, “ENOUGH!” and be done with the whole “debacle-of-a sham-of-a deception-of-a human connection” with the “perpetrators” around us. What about the perpetrator within? Don’t know about you but, at the same time, to justify the righteous indignation I feel, I usually overlook my own insertion of cruel, manipulative power plays over the years because I’ve been successful in them and have had no reason yet to regret the control I’ve gained over people and situations. A “socially-acceptable abuser” doesn’t normally present opposition to himself/herself and will scoff at whatever calm, strong and peaceful presence makes him/her second-guess himself/herself and feel insecure and vulnerable.

Well, what is “normal” for mankind isn’t a confine under which we must suffer without hope for freedom from its frightened clutches. We don’t have to settle for and be abused by what comes naturally to humans: the desire to judge and punish. That’s mercy: liberation from our own penchant for dealing out damnation to ourselves and to others. Grace, the ability to tolerate and forgive, is what wouldn’t come naturally to us if left to our own devices.

“There will always be some--as those who glared at the woman taken in adultery--who will urge us to be stern, rigid, and cold-hearted. Yes, there are always a few who prefer stoning to forgiving, who will vote for judgment rather than tolerance. But my hope is that we might join the swelling ranks of those who decide that Christlike grace (with all its risks) is so much more effective, we opt for it every time.”1

- K. E.

____________________________

1 Swindoll, Charles R. The Grace Awakening. Word Publishing, London. 1990. p 12

PURPOSE

06/15/2010

10:27 P.M.

"PURPOSE"

Serenity.

Perfect stillness.

Green, healthy and free, the leaves whose origin can't be traced have found their solace on that lone, large boulder I see as I slowly turn to look behind me, to my left, from whence the whimpering did dare to sound.

What bold sheen the leaves adorn!

The Great Light grants them gold.

So bright.

I shield my eyes to better take in the grand, blossoming end to the sheet of water that recklessly falls over the face of one steep cliff to the North.

Such fresh, ancient, life-giving foliage frames my mind's eye, West and South!

They are backing my venture, this Journey I've found, but also keeping the way backward closed.

She needs help. She's here: Small Scared One.

Where? We must draw her out; bid her leave this place.

This sacred ground is no place for a small, scared Thing.

Alas, I beckon but she does not come out, though I sense her lack of resolve and her need for rest.

"There is acceptance! There is reason here! Come, Small One, and let us reason together! I have brought my Own with me. You will know her and find a true friend in her. Let us listen to her freedom song together!"

With a gentle rustling of disturbed rock-leaves, I see her disheveled, dark head rise up from behind Big Rock, just up enough for me to have a glimpse of those wide, wondering, weary eyes.

"Come, Child," I say. "I see you are weary. You need not be." I offer my steady, sure hand.

No movement does she make.

"We can find Reason together. She has not gone far."

I step forward slowly, only one step, with arm outstretched.

A sad sigh escapes my belabored breast, as Small One retreats behind that stubborn stone.

Plenty of leaves and fronds for children's crowns can be found upon her make-shift fortress but she will not notice; neither will she care, so long as the absent Care-giver appears not to guide her.

This Child exhausts Patience to his core.

Light dims without losing strength.

"What am I to do with you?" I say only for myself to hear, as the Child should not be burdened with my exasperation, although already I know what is to come, for my part.

It is clear that I must not give up on this course, so I turn my back to the Rock and sit against it.

Releasing my Song for the enclosing night, I faintly hear Small, Scared One humming along, attempting to match the tune.

She will someday have no need of me, and I will graciously leave my post then.

Before that, though, her ears must hear the crashing waters of that majestic fall to her North, to pull her eyes into focus and see what has been in front of her.

Then the awe will set in.

Fears will be released.

Her raging mind will be stilled.

She'll invite Reason in, have her Own Song and see Care had always been with her. She'll see the unexpected trail Care had left behind to comfort her while Small One wouldn't see her helping hand.

Patience, the unsung hero, whose dearest companion is Humility, will fade with lack of necessity, as is how these things should go. Those two are Content, playing their part and living in simplicity, as the strong ones always are.

For now, my honor and prosperity are here, in the wilderness, where this Child Happened along, with the next leg of my Journey wrapped in her open, unseeing eyes.

- K. E. Dahl

The library of obsession

I cleared out all of my books, journals and notebooks from Mom and Dad's recently, to pile them up somewhere else. There's a little stack of journals on my desk here in my room. Those old journals are staring at me, acting like they're stacked all coolly and calmly like nobody's business; but I know they have it in for me....

As a child, I was obsessed with kittens. Naturally, then, I'd inevitably receive gifts with kitty themes, though I've never liked feline imagery to be on any object. Why, oh, why do I have a journal riddled with stoic cat images overlapping one another? Why did I never tell my family, "Please don't get me things that have cats on them," and therefore avoid the Christmas sweater incident? Sheesh.

The journals have annoying, beady little eyes that stare daggers into my soul. Though the daggers are rubber and probably were purchased from a joke shop by the kitty journal itself, the special effects are awkwardness and embarrassment only for me to enjoy. Annoying, floppy daggers.

I HAVE TO read these things. Just HAVE to! But... When I open them to try to get glimpses of who I used to be and find out what I don't remember anymore, I only find obsessive writings from a deluded teenager that thought she ruled the world. Ick. So uncomfortable. The pride and denial that ran rampant in my mind back then are disturbing to behold. The pride: I'm here as a personal savior to myself and to you. The denial: I know who I am, what romantic love is and which hot young thang I'm going to love regardless of actual reality. Eek. I had a habit of losing myself in fellas. I'd grown accustomed to adjusting myself and learning how to be like the dude I was "with," taking on his interests and having 4 mindsets I'd oscillate betwixt: make out, save the world by my own power while I try to add in the right words to make it seem that I'm holy and actually super-full of purpose and power from God, "time to perform!" (being who it seemed everyone, especially boys, expected me to be), and music (God seems to have really used music over the years to get through to me and help me grow up and get over myself).

I was thinking at first that I'd find some old writings that I'd want to share.... uh, no. Please, no. Do I want people to know the young mind of Kristina? Should it be inflicted upon anyone except God Himself? Well, I'd rather have people continue to like me, instead, honestly. I feel I may actually lose your affection if you were to know the mind of Kristina that dates back from January of 1997 to August of 1998: the time of the (dun, dun, dunnnn!) cat journal (and that's just ONE of many similar documented time-spans, though the rest are rather lacking in feline pictures). I hope this closing photo is a redeeming image that'll bring you happy, undisturbed thoughts, as puppies are known to bring out in the oddest of situations (disclaimer: no, that's not my dog; Allison knows that, but y'all else prolly don't...oh, and no puppies were assaulted by cat lovers in the making of this blog).





Love,

K. E.