Blog #7

I told some of my best girls that I feel like I only write mopey stuff.  I'm so totally tortured or whatever.

This isn't going to be mopey although it might be a little challenging to write...

I like to be the boss.  I like answering to myself.  I like control.  Learning to give Jesus control is still a daily struggle for me even though I deeply believe His Way is better.

They say there are spenders and there are savers.  I am a spender. Big time. I've pretty much been employed since I was 18 and on my own a good chunk of that time.  So I've spent alot, for like a decade. Without caring about consequence until the last couple of years.  Even then, I despise budgeting.  And it ain't like I'm rolling in cash.  Hello, I'm a single working mom with a mortgage.  Not a huge mortgage, but still.

I like to be the one that pays the bill at dinner.  I like to be the one that has a gift for my girlfriend on her birthday.  I don't like for my kids to go without things.  The last couple of men I have dated have not been men that take finances or jobs seriously. I mean them no offense.  I like paying anyway, I certainly wasn't encouraging them to be responsible.  At least not seriously.

Because I like being the boss.  Oh man, do I like being the boss.

But.

I'm learning.

I was completely honest with Jeremiah a few months ago about my finances.  He sat down with me and helped me figure out a real budget.  On Google Docs.  (I have also learned I adore dating a geek.) That was very scary for me but also incredibly freeing.  He even told me he had expected much worse :)  And here is what I want to remember later, the whole point:

Jeremiah wanted to buy me a mini-spa day this weekend.  And let me tell you, these eyebrowz iz craaaa-zay.  Gracie really wants to do swim lessons and the last day to sign up is tomorrow and I can't really make it work at this point of the month.  I told my boyfriend this (Eeek! Scary!) earlier today. 

And he gave me money for both.  And then some.  I did not want to take it.  Not at all.  I pay for things.  I hand out money.  That is not me getting to be the boss, the provider.  Thats not only me but also my child being provided for.

He is such a lovely person.  I think that's an acceptable word for a man.  He has this beautiful heart and the kindest spirit.  And he wants to take care of me, and in so much more than just finances.  And I want to let him.  I think (I hope) I took the money graciously enough. 

Blog #6, finished.  And I am feeling grateful.

A lil something extra: I re-read this for spelling errors and I hope this didn't come off as money hungry... I just really like my boyfriend ;)

Blog #6

I don't know how to start writing about what's in my heart or on my mind right now.  So I'm just going to start tapping away on my little phone screen, we'll see what happens and here we go.

I can't get away from the parable about the soil.  As in its been in two of the last books I have read, it was preached about the last Sunday I was in service and it came up in a discussion just last week.  You can find it in the Bible in Mark 4, here's brief synopsis: A sower (Jesus) throws seeds (The Word) onto four different types of soil (hearts) and all to different ends.  I grew up in church and have intellectually understood that story for a long time.

Here's the rub.  The reason I can't just chalk it up to coincidence: I'm less than confident I am the good soil that multiples its fruit.

Why?

Because I'm sure having a hard time convincing myself that I look, sound or act much like the Jesus I say I love. Like ever.  The fruit of my life is... lacking.

If I love Jesus, I will keep his commands.  He said that.  And not like cutesy, animated, feel good, Sunday school cartoon Jesus.  Real, breathing, flesh and blood soon-to-be-shed-on-my-behalf Jesus. I am to lose my life to gain it.  Pick up my cross.  Love others as myself.  Give out of sacrifice, not just abundance.  I am a sheep among wolves where the harvest is many and the workers are few.  I am to count the cost.  Him and Him alone.

I have "known" this my whole life.  But just over 3.5 years ago it became real.  I read a book written by a man such wiser than me that said it is good to be cautious when people toss around the phrase "God spoke to me" too lightly.  It's not something I commonly use. But the week after Easter, God spoke into my heart as I was walking out to the parking lot. 

"Are you in? It is time to follow Me.  There are no other choices but My way.  Come beloved child."

And I followed.  Eyes ahead, pressing forward, knowing there would be a cost.  I desperately wanted Jesus.  I became a part of deepened friendships, learned to really study the Bible, worshipped like I never had, began to understand what service looks like and began to learn His voice.  I read parts of the Old Testament I ignored as a kid, determined to be wiser than the Israelites.  I was on this path and nothing was getting in my way.

For quite awhile.

But wouldn't you know it?  I still had the seeds and roots of thorny sin down deep in my heart.  And as deeply as I wanted Jesus, those roots were there.  Sure, I started to weed and work but it got hard, and I became afraid.  Being comfortable in church attendance, having at arms length relationships and slowly starting to take back over my life was much, much easier than dealing with that ugliness and hurt.  I got better at hiding.

For a little awhile.

Hiding is miserable.

And now here I am.  Reading Crazy Love for the second time but with a much harder, distant heart.  A heart I certainly didn't desire just over a year ago.   A heart that is burdened by a need for control and safety and not the things of Christ.  There is no escaping the fact that Francis Chan could have added my name to the line "Do not assume you are good soil. [Yea, I'm writing about you Meghan R. Poulos]"

Can thorny, choked out soil become good soil?  Can Jesus take the mess I re-created and use it to His Glory?  Does He even want to?  How many times do I get to come back?

I don't seem to write very happy things.  I'm kinda tired of being a grouch.

Blog #6, lingering.