Seasons of life (circa 2002)

I decided to cheat today and use an old writing.  Not so much that I don't feel like writing, but this is so appropriate for what I am feeling today, that I can't say it any better than I already did.  So here you go.. Flashback from 2002..

A Season of Butterflies

Out in the southwestern desert, we don’t have seasons like every other place on earth.  Yes, occasionally there is the abrupt change of color in the leaves for fall, in fact, I think I have seen that twice in the 26 years I have lived here.  And most assuredly, we have snow, I remember 5 times exactly.  And of course, there is spring, sometime in mid December, when most of us who came from somewhere else are ready to go hibernate somewhere else.    No, it is not the same here, but God does send seasons. 

There is the traffic season.  This occurs twice a year, once before Christmas when the snowbirds arrive, and once when school is out and everyone is trying to escape to a cooler climate.  There is hunting season, which in Tucson means that Dillard's is having a sale on sheets, and the women have blood in their eye, and a credit card firmly clenched in their hand. 

But really, we do have seasons here.  One of them, Fall, is almost imperceptible, just a hint of light changing, and then it is gone.  I mark this season by what I see.  One of the things I see are Monarch Butterflies.

Monarchs are beautiful creatures, even if they are bugs.  They are enormous, and drift through the sky like birds, and may even fool you into believing they are if you don’t have enough patience to watch.  Every year they migrate, (YES, I said migrate) to Mexico to breed, and then return to lay their eggs.  Lately I have seen them drifting through the sky southward.  This tells me that Fall has arrived, and soon another season will pass.  Just like the seasons in life pass.  Some of them so quickly they too are almost imperceptible.

In reality, when the seasons change we are happy at first and then we start to moan about whatever it is we don’t like about the season.  If it is Summer, we are ready for the heat to end, If it is Fall we are ready for snow to come, If it is spring, we are ready for Summer to hit. If it is the season of traffic, we want the snowbirds to leave, and if it is the season of sales, we don't like what is on sale.  It seems we are happy, but it is only for a brief period of time, and then we are looking for something more.  I think this is part of why God created deserts, to teach us to be content with what we have.
Arizona is unlike any place on earth.  Dry, hot, but green.  Go figure.  One of the amazing things I see about this land is that people react different here than anywhere I have ever been.  In Colorado, where I lived prior to my desert experience, if it rained everyone ran indoors.  When it rains in Arizona, everyone rushes outside to see it before it is gone.  Then of course, we start to complain about the humidity.  As humans, we just can’t seem to be content, and this is why God created seasons, I believe.  To wake us up, to give us something to think about, to turn our hearts and eyes back toward Him. 

Today as I watched the season of the Butterflies enter, I watched as they drifted around on the Fall breeze and I thought about how discontent I have been with my life at times.  I find myself wanting to go home, to Colorado, but when I was there I wanted to go everywhere else.  I guess I am sort of like those butterflies, always having the urge to migrate. I think if I really stopped to see what they go through just in their everyday existence, I might be more content at home.

I can picture Ma and Pa Monarch, packing all their shoes, 3 pair each for an outing, and Ma exclaiming that she just doesn't have enough shoes, and there is a sale going on at Dillard's and can't they just wait until the traffic season comes, so she can hit the 75% off sale.  Pa is glaring at her, and muttering under his butterfly breath, that he needs a Stinkin' new RV, cause last time they flew south, they almost got plowed down by a flock of Canadian Geese, (who by the way, Pa says are aliens, and really should take themselves back to where ever it is Canadian Geese come from.)  He is busily packing all of his hunting equipment, and wondering where he left the shells to his itty bitty butterfly shotgun, ‘cause this time when those rude geese go by at 120 miles per hour, he has a present for them, and he snickers under his breath.
In the end they just give up and flap their big butterfly wings and head south, with Ma complaining she is not sure if she left the coffeemaker turned off.  Pa is busy keeping an eye out for those darn geese. 

Now how silly does this really sound?  In reality, it actually sounds just like people.  Think of that, before you start to pride yourself on being Homo Erectus.  A butterfly has more common sense than a human does.
He knows when to pack and leave, and when to come back.  He sees the times and seasons, and does what he is supposed to do without complaint.  He notices every little bit of seasonal change, because his existence, and the future existence of his offspring, depends on it.  He is totally aware of the things God has put in place for him, and he doesn’t sit around complaining and waiting for something good to happen. 

Now I like seasons, some more than others.  And this season of the butterflies opens my eyes to see something much subtler than a change of light or the direction of the sun.  It opens my eyes to see the changes of the seasons of my soul.  I think perhaps I should take heed, without complaint, and pack all of my own shoes, take the lead of the butterflies, sans shotgun, and be grateful I got to see another season, either of the earth, or my soul.

So I am making a promise to myself, in writing so in case the season of Alzheimer's hits me I won't forget,
To be content in what God gives, spring or summer, winter or fall, Traffic or hunting season, and yes, even those dry desert seasons of the soul.  Today I think I will just enjoy the butterflies.

He Called My Name.....

When the sacrifice was finished, the body of Jesus securely hidden away, and the political machine that had ordered his execution satisfied that even his body could not be retrieved, the disciples, and those that loved him hid in fear.  For three days, they were hidden away, in grief, fearing for their lives and the lives of their families. 

I have been hidden away in grief before.  It is a darker pit than any grave, for your soul burns within you to hold that dear one again.  Your mind races over all the things you should have said and done, but didn’t.   You heart begs for one more chance to make things right.  Your body longs to go to the grave with the one you loved.
I can only imagine how these men and women were feeling.  Not only had they lost their dearest friend, they had lost their hope.  For this one who now lay in a tomb, was the one they believed would be the savior of their nation.  For them, all hope was gone.

The women, as women will do, went about the tasks that still had to be done.  To them fell the task of the body being properly prepared for the grave.  Early in the morning, they woke, took the necessary things, and went to the tomb where the soldiers were guarding Jesus body.  I am sure they were thinking how would they get the soldiers to let them pass, or who would roll the great stone away from the entrance, but more I am thinking, they were, as women do, trying to just get on with life, without any hope for the future.

Imagine the vision.  The soldiers are gone. Where could they be?
What would have caused a Roman soldier to leave his post, knowing his life would be forfeited if he did?  And then the sight of the entrance to the tomb… the stone rolled away to the side.  Had they taken his body and hidden it? 

Picture yourself in that circumstance.  What if this were the body of someone you love, and now it is gone?  You are powerless.  Your body, overcome with grief and fear, trembles.  Tears flow in unceasing, uncontrollable great rivers.  Where have they taken him? 

The scripture at John 20: 11 - 16, describes a meeting that forever will hold my heart. It cannot be said a better way…
“ But Mary stood outside by the tomb weeping, and as she wept she stooped down and looked into the tomb.  And she saw two angels in white sitting, one at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain.  Then they said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?”  She said to them, “Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him.”
Now when she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, and did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”

She, supposing Him to be the gardener, said to Him, “Sir, if You have carried Him away, tell me where You have laid Him, and I will take Him away.”

Jesus said to her, “Mary!”

He spoke her name.  It was all she needed to know it was Jesus. 

We all know voices. We get a phone call from a friend we have not heard from in a while, and we know their voice instantly.  Children who are out playing, hear a women’s voice calling and know exactly who is calling them.  From birth to death, we begin to recognize voices.  Each voice distinct in it’s tone, it’s urgency.  We only need to hear it to know if it is a cry for help, a voice of recognition.  Think of someone you love, saying your name.  You know that voice. No one else says that name the way they do.

And so it was for Mary.  And so it was for me.  I have heard that voice call my name.  “Susan” softly as if in a whisper inside my soul, and I needed nothing else to know that it was the voice of my Savior. 

He is risen, He is alive, and He is calling your name today…

The Gift of Life.

 

Please listen to the video

Matthew 5:44 But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you.

It is morning.  Jesus is being condemned to die, and he offers no defense for himself.  He stands before his accusers, in silence.  They beat him.  Not just any beating, but a Roman beating that consisted of being whipped with a nine tailed whip with pieces of metal and rock tied to the end of it.  The barbs rip the flesh from his body.  The blood flows.  Their fists pummel his face, leaving him nearly unrecognizable as a human.  They tie a cross to him, and force him to carry it to the place of execution.  They spit on him and laugh at him in derision.  The crowd follows along, some watching, some jeering taunts and laughing at him. 

His emotions run rampant.  For these who are torturing him, are the ones he loves.  Those who he came to save, are now condemning him.  The hurt in his heart runs deeper than any cut the whip gave. 

At the top of the hill, they lay him on the cross.  The soldiers bring a large hammer and roughly hewn nails, and as he willing lays down his arms across the wood, they laugh at him, place the nail at his wrist and pound the nail through into the wood.  The first blow brings a stunning pain.  The second one sends shocks of pain up through his arm and into his head.  They nail his other wrist.  The pain is indescribable.  They lay one foot over the other, and drive a large nail through both feet into the wood.  By now the pain is enough to cause death.  That, coupled with the cuts from the whipping and the beating, would alone leave him near death.

They raise the cross, his body hanging from only the nails, every fiber of his being in agony from the beating and the nails,  and  they drop the cross into the support hole.  It drops with a loud thud, shaking his entire body, worsening the wounds, increasing the bleeding.  He hangs waiting for the last breath, gasping for air.  Watching his accusers, watching the crowd, and knowing every thought that goes through their minds.  He cries out in agony, to God the Father, but not to save himself, to forgive his tormenters.   

Imagine how you have felt when you realize something you have done is wrong.  The worry, the fear, the aching inside feeling sick because of something you have done. 

Now picture Jesus on the cross. All the sins of every person, from time beginning to the end of the world, bearing down on him.  A man who knew no sin, now experiencing all the emotion of murder, adultery, lying, thieving, every little sin and for every person ever born or to be born, all at once, all at this time. 

It grows dark suddenly.  An eclipse has occurred.  He cries out, that it is finished.  He has accomplished something no one else could ever do.  The creator of the universe has given his own blood and body as a sacrifice for those who he loves.  Those who hate him. 

This is not the end, and He knows it.  But He is giving the highest life as sacrifice in exchange for the lowest lives.  Because He loves them even more than they hate him.

I am at the foot of that cross. You are at the foot of that cross. Whether you love Him or hate Him, this sacrifice is for you.  He took your place at the execution.  He paid with his life, so you could live.

He, the highest life, died forgiving the highest wrong, and loving even the lowest life.  Can we not then forgive, from the slightest wrongs to the deepest hurt, love our enemy, love everyone, and turn those who hate to those who love?
Romans 5:8  But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.