Feed My Sheep

      Have you ever thought about the life of Peter? I have. Actually, Peter has long been my favorite disciple. I know, it's pretty weird to have a favorite disciple, but he's so much cooler than John or James or (pffffft) Bartholomew. 

     In all actuality, I love Peter because he reminds me of...me. I relate to him. We give things 150% and usually think before we speak. There's only so many times one person can put their foot in their own mouth, but Peter and I both seem to have a penchant for doing it. 

     I also struggle with perfectionism. Perhaps in no area am I so unwilling to accept a flaw in myself as in my faith. Every little mistake, every sin--I am my own worst critic. I berate myself, constantly look for flaws in myself...constantly think that God is mad at me (for whatever reason it may be this time).

     In my mind, I sometimes see God tallying up my heart-- "well, she did (fill in blank here) longer than she read her Bible. She definitely doesn't put me first. She's going to Hell." It seems so ridiculous put out on paper that I want to laugh at myself, but the sickening, tight feeling in my throats reminds me "this is exactly how I think." 

     She watched TV.  (Punishment: Hell.)

     She forgot to pray. (Punishment: Hell.)

     She thought about kissing and love in generally. (Gasp!) (Punishment: Hell.)

     Perhaps my life can best be summed up like this: "trying my best to avoid punishment since 1995." My first thoughts whenever I do something are: "will I get punished for this?" With nearly every action, every thought, I feel like there's a monkey on my back, chanting,

     "Pun-ish-ment, pun-ish-ment, pun-ish-ment!" It's going to get me, it's going to catch up, I will never be perfect, I will never make anyone happy...

     ....

     Then we have Peter. If anyone deserved punishment, it was Peter. If anyone deserved condemnation from God, it was Peter. But instead of seeing an angry, condescending Jesus in each of these scenes I'm about to mention, try to picture Jesus with kind, sympathetic eyes.

     Peter, letting fear overwhelm him on the water and sinking.

     "Peter. Don't doubt." Kind, sympathetic...encouraging. 

     Peter, cutting off the ear of a soldier. 

     "Peter." Kind, sympathetic...understanding. 

     Peter, denying Christ three times. 

     "Peter." Kind, sympathetic...forgiving.

     "Peter, do you love me?" Jesus didn't have to ask Peter this question. I feel like, you know, since He's Jesus, He already knew Peter's heart. Which is precisely why Jesus DID ask the question, to give Peter time to repent. To give him healing...because, maybe, just maybe, Peter couldn't get over his own sin. I mean, who can just "get over" denying your friend, your Savior, right before He's crucified? I can hardly get over when someone yells at me for doing something slightly wrong. 

     Denying my Savior? You better bet I'd still be thinking about it, especially when the Person I wounded was right there in front of me.

     Two more times. "Peter, do you love me?"

     Then Peter was hurt. Why? Because he knew his guilt. He knew why Jesus was asking (or so he thought). He knew WHY Jesus "doubted" him. I don't think Peter was upset with Jesus. I think he was upset with himself, that his devotion warranted such "disbelief."

     "You know I do, Lord."

     "Feed

     My

     Sheep."

     That's all. Jesus didn't call Peter out on his sin. He didn't even address it by name, shame him. In fact, if the other disciples were listening, they'd probably wonder what the heck was going on. Instead, Jesus and Peter shared a powerful moment, a powerful, forgiving moment, without any shame.

     And you know what?

     It didn't end there.

     Oh, sure. That could be called "conjecture," since we don't know if or what other sins Peter committed. But, since he was human, I know he did. Even though his zeal for Christ had been renewed, Peter still had a sinful nature. Given his previous brash behavior, perhaps it wasn't even too long before he got in "trouble" again. 

     But no matter how many times, no matter what the sin...

     Those kind, sympathetic eyes still turned towards Peter, free of judgment. "Do you love me?"

     "You know I do, Lord."

     Forgiveness. 

     Every. 

     Single. 

     Time. 

A Christmas Tail: A Seashells Short Story

The wind whistled outside as white flurries pounded the windows and stuck to the panes. The cold wanted in, and the only defense of the people inside the cabin were piles of blankets and a roaring fire. 

     The door flew open. A man entered, as did the storm. Snow dusted the floor and clung to his tall frame as he struggled to lock it back out again, and stomped his feet once he succeeded. 

     “I’m afraid we won’t be getting out of here anytime soon.” He slipped out of his coat and hung it on the rack affixed to the wall. “This blizzard came from nowhere.”

     “Oh, Papa,” a redheaded young woman moaned, who bore little resemblance to the dark-haired man who had sired her. “What about Christmas?” 

     Papa spread his hands. “What about Christmas? We’re all gathered here.”

     “But we don’t have a tree!” The littlest girl in the room chirped. She was already donned in a nightgown with her dark blonde hair braided down her back. “Or any presents!” 

     The man stroked his dark mustache. “Well, we do have a roof over our heads, though. And this cabin is warm, and we have each other.”

     The two middle boys, who had gotten into a rather bad tiff earlier in the day, glared at each other. The younger of the two locked eyes with his current nemesis and muttered under his breath, “I don’t want to have you.”

     The older, now-offended boy jumped up. “All right. You asked for it!” And he grabbed one of the blankets off the sofa and leapt on his brother. The two rolled about and came dangerously close to the hearth until the eldest child, a girl with their father’s dark hair and eyes, stepped in and separated them. 

     “You two are fourteen and eleven now. When are you going to behave yourselves?” She held both boys by their collars and hauled them away from a fiery death. 

     All this was observed by two silent people, tucked right by the fireplace. One was a tall, thin boy in a wheelchair, a checkered blanket covering his lower half. A lean girl, more bones than flesh it seemed, sat next to him, her head on his lap, and her wild, curly, ash brown hair draped across his throw. These two relaxed against each other with what could only be described as people who share a split soul; a friendship so strong, born of secrets, mysteries, and unfathomable, inexplicable trust. Such bonds could never be described, not even by the poets, and can only be understood if one owns a split soul themselves. 

     “This is going to be the most boring Christmas ever,” the eleven-year-old moaned. He let his head clunk against the couch. “We have nothing to do!”

     “We have our imaginations,” the redhead sister reminded him. “And we can read.”

     This brought groans from both boys, and the youngest tacked on, “Like I said. Boring.”

     The boy in the wheelchair stirred a bit. He adjusted his position and rested his hand on the head of the sharer of his soul. “Come on, don’t complain. How about we share stories?”

     The eldest girl reclaimed her position on the couch. “I take it from your suggestion that you have one in mind.”

     “I do.” The wheelchair-bound boy gave a shy smile to the group. “But I don’t know if you’re interested in mermaids, mermen, and sea witches.”

     The redhead—who, despite being twenty, was still very much interested in all aforementioned things—perked up, as did her eight-year-old sister. 

     “Yes!” the elder girl breathed. She clasped her hands together and cinched the shawl around her shoulders tighter.

     “Is this a kissing story?” The eleven-year-old eyed the storyteller with such a dubious expression, as if a kissing story was the equivalent of switching out an apple pie for a mud pie. 

     The other boy considered this with a tilt of his dark head. “Hmm...no. Not really. But it is a story of love and betrayal and everything in between.” 

     The younger boy scratched at a freckle on his chin. “Well, betrayal is good.”

Papa chuckled to himself. “Agreed. Speaking of betrayal, I best go make sure your mother and grandmother haven’t murdered each other. You all behave, and don’t stay up too late.” 

     The boy in the wheelchair watched the flames for a moment. Their reflection flickered across his face before he began his story in a low tone… “Once upon a time…”

~~

Spiritual Glasses

      For all intents and purposes, I cannot see without my glasses. I can see blurry shapes and outlines that give me a general sense of something, but not the intricate details of objects. (After getting my glasses for the first time, my reaction was: "The trees have leaves on them?" Meaning instead of green blobs, of course.)

     Because of this, I love cleaning the house without my glasses on. You may wonder what the correlation is, but let me explain it. Without my glasses, the house looks pretty good right from the start. I can run the sweeper and feel like I'm ready to sit down and pat myself on the back for a job well done.

     Then I put my glasses on.

     And it's super hard not to be discouraged.

     The long hairs, the dust bunnies, the random crud that seems to collect, it's all still there. I just couldn't see it because I'm blind. Everything comes into focus suddenly, and I'm (unfortunately) back to work again.

     Our spiritual lives can be a lot like that.

     When we examine ourself through the eyes of the world, or with the blinders of our own self-deception, we can seem pretty good about our lives. You can sit in your blobby, formless castle without spiritual glasses on and thing: "hey, I've got a pretty swell life. No need to change or improve as far as I can see."

     And then...you put on the spiritual glasses. The dirt on your life suddenly becomes apparent, because you're looking at your life through the lens of God's perspective. You're not done cleaning house yet. 

     This can be discouraging, to say the least. It's always disheartening to find out that there are ways we can improve, or that there are things we need to weed out from our lives for more spiritual growth. It's hard, because we want to sit down and be satisfied with ourself. We want to think that we're good where we are. It's the same reason I always try and clean house without my glasses on!

     But we NEED to wear our spiritual glasses so we don't become "whitewashed tombs," as Jesus described the Pharisees. Nobody wants a Christian who acts perfect to the real world, or condemns the dirtiness of other people's houses without first scrubbing his own. It's only once we've scrubbed our own lives can we truly see the world through clean spiritual glasses, and see where we can help other people in their own lives.

     If you're in complacent in house cleaning, your house will only get dirtier and dirtier. It's the same in your Christian life. If you don't regularly assess and try and clean your life, it'll just be filled with the grime of your sins and bad habits. So don't wait to dust off your Godly glasses and put them on. Let's all take time to examine our lives today and see where the crud is in our lives, and how we can clean house to be more like Jesus.