When You Breathe
Image by Nanda Dian Prata, Unsplash
Some words stop me in my tracks.
They have a way of affecting me deeply and changing the way I look at things—the way I look at life.
The words I recently heard by Sandra Thurman Caporale did that for me. They turned my day upside down, brought me to that space before my Creator, and gave me a sweet glimpse of Him in a new and fresh way.
I pray you are equally moved.
YHWH
There was a moment when Moses had the nerve to ask God what His name is.
God was gracious enough to answer, and the name He gave is recorded in the original Hebrew as YHWH.
Over time, we’ve arbitrarily added an “a” and an “e” to get Yahweh, presumably because we have a preference for vowels. But scholars and rabbis have noted that the letters YHWH represent breathing sounds, or aspirated consonants. When pronounced without intervening vowels, it actually sounds like breathing. YH (inhale), WH (exhale).
So a baby’s first cry, his first breath, speaks the name of God.
A deep sigh calls His NAME—or a groan or gasp that is too heavy for mere words.
So when I can’t utter anything else, is my cry calling out His name?
Even an atheist would speak His name, their very breath giving constant acknowledgement to God.
Likewise, a person leaves this Earth with their last breath, when God’s name is no longer filling their lungs.
Being alive—breathing—means I speak his name constantly.
Is it heard the loudest when I’m the quietest?
In sadness, we breathe heavy sighs.
In joy our lungs feel almost like they will burst.
In fear we hold our breath and have to be told to breathe slowly to help us calm down.
When we’re about to do something hard, we take a deep breath to find our courage.
When I think about it, breathing is giving Him praise. Even in the hardest moments!
This is so beautiful and fills me with emotion every time I grasp the thought.
God chose to give Himself a Name that we can’t help but speak every moment we’re alive.
All of us, always, everywhere.
Waking, sleeping, breathing, with the Name of God on our lips.
—Sandra Thurman Caporale
Where Does the Fairy Tale Go? (Hope in the Disappointment)
Photo by Jill Wellington from Pexels
He was the cutest boy I had ever seen. Three and a half feet tall. Baby brown eyes. He lived right across the playground and over the chain-link fence. Brett Elmblad … the name forever embedded in the recesses of my mind.
We were five when he chose me – me – to be his wife. We were playing house on our street. My best friend Kim was elected to be the child—the baby. Brett and I were married without much ceremony, and we moved into our tree house home. Just climbed right in and started our new life together. It was divine. Everything I had hoped for in a marriage. When he looked into my eyes, I knew I belonged to him forever.
Sadly, we were divorced a few months later when our family moved two towns over. No papers to sign. Not even a goodbye. I had lost him, but it wasn’t the end. One day he would find me, and that day would be glorious.
My mom had done some shopping while we settled into our new home. She bought me clothes, including a lime green, frilled nightgown. Fancy, like a princess would wear. I knew it was the one. The very night I wore my brand new lacy green princess pajamas would be the very night my prince would come for me. He would find me, even two towns away. I kept the nightgown folded neatly, tags still on, and tucked it into my top drawer, waiting for the perfect evening. I would know the time when it came.
And I did. It happened. It was a clear, winter evening. The stars hung low and bright. Magical. It was the night. I removed the tag and dressed in my frilly nightgown. The lacy hem reached the floor. I brushed out my long hair and sat on my stairs in range of the front door. I felt every bit the princess and knew my prince would come that night.
One hour passed, my focus glued to the door. To the tiny windows on either side. To the expectant trill of the doorbell. Two hours. My mother told me to go to bed. But how could I sleep on this fated night. I would miss his arrival for sure.
Three hours pushed the limits of any six-year-old, and I returned to my room and changed my pajamas. I folded the gown neatly and stuffed it in my top drawer. I crawled into bed in my worn cotton run-of-the-mill pajamas and pulled the covers way up.
In that moment, hinged between reality and fairy tale, I understood the truth . . . I had picked the wrong night.
You see, when it doesn’t turn out the way we thought it should, we have the chance to pivot, not to give up. Because so many times the dream doesn’t look exactly like we thought it would. The prince doesn’t come … quite yet. The nightgown, though pretty, didn’t hold the power we gave it. But the dream is not gone because of these things. That hope rising up within us … it remains. And, believe it or not, we have all we need to move forward despite the setback. Because it isn’t really a setback at all. It’s a chance to choose another way . . . another path to get to the dream.
For more blogposts from Cher related to this one, check out …
The Road Less Traveled and How We Find It
IN THROUGH THE DOOR - How our Medical Families are Coping with Covid-19
Photo by Marcelo Leal on Unsplash
I asked my high school students this week to share how the Corona Virus is affecting them. No school. More downtime. Extra projects. Those are some of the answers I got. One student, however, whose mother is a nurse in the local hospital, gave us a glimpse of the added stresses on a family in the medical field. Here’s an excerpt of her journal shared with permission:
This has been affecting me more than I thought it would. I’m not so much stressed about the disease itself, but it’s bringing a lot of stress on my family. First of all, my mom is taking care of a lot of Corona patients, so she’s working overtime and often comes home crying, sleep-deprived, and exhausted. She works the night shift, and all the doctors she works with are high-risk and can’t go into the rooms to evaluate the Corona patients, so she does. They don’t have enough tests or beds. Someone stole their proper masks, so she doesn’t have the right protection for her job. When she comes home all the boys go to their rooms, and I help her discretely undress before coming inside. While she showers, I wash her scrubs. Then I sanitize everything she’s touched, including the entire laundry room before the boys are allowed to come out of their rooms. My dad is working 14-hour days from home, plus doing night school. And my mom is either working or sleeping, so I have taken over a lot of the general responsibilities, like grocery shopping for my family and for my grandparents who live 20 minutes away but can’t leave the house. I help my grandma too with her 16 medications like my mom normally does. And I am cooking meals for my family and cleaning. My life has totally stopped. My mom’s job has added a lot of stress to our whole family. She says that it’s almost definite that she will end up with Corona, and probably we will too because of exposure to her.
Let’s remember to pray for our families serving sacrificially during this time. Those who are going above and beyond to help others at the risk of themselves and even their own families.
Thank you, nurses, doctors, and medical staff. Thank you, teenagers who are shouldering more than you ever thought you would or could in this time. Our hearts go out to you. And we are grateful!
From the Desk of CS Lewis ... on fear and dying.
This is an excerpt from Steve Laube’s blog:
I want to thank Matt Smethurst for posting the following on his blog for the Gospel Coalition last Thursday (you can find the original here). He found a brilliant selection of words from C.S. Lewis that apply to us 72 years after they were first published. Just substitute the words “atomic bomb” with the word “coronavirus.”
In one way we think a great deal too much of the atomic bomb. “How are we to live in an atomic age?” I am tempted to reply: “Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London almost every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night; or indeed, as you are already living in an age of cancer, an age of syphilis, an age of paralysis, an age of air raids, an age of railway accidents, an age of motor accidents.”
In other words, do not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented: and quite a high percentage of us were going to die in unpleasant ways. We had, indeed, one very great advantage over our ancestors—anesthetics; but we have that still. It is perfectly ridiculous to go about whimpering and drawing long faces because the scientists have added one more chance of painful and premature death to a world which already bristled with such chances and in which death itself was not a chance at all, but a certainty.
This is the first point to be made: and the first action to be taken is to pull ourselves together. If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things—praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.
— “On Living in an Atomic Age” (1948) in Present Concerns: Journalistic Essays
Saturated
photo by Nathan Cowley
The beaches in Mexico are out of this world. White sand, clear water. And empty as far as the eye can see. For eight years we lived sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez, our lifeline to survive the desert heat.
Every few days, when the work had devoured our energy, and the stress had cluttered our minds, we would pack a cooler and head to the beach. The kids would snorkel for Sergeant Majors and search the rocks for hermit crabs. I would stretch out in my chair under the umbrella and read my next novel. My husband, Peter, would get in the water and never leave.
You think, Imagine that. How awesome it would be. Only a short drive from one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. I would love that. And you would be right … at least in the beginning.
Somewhere, along the line, the beach began to meld into routine. It lost its glimmer and took on the form of a task. Another thing to be done. It became effort and boredom. A burden in the end. And no one wanted to go, except Peter. He hung on until he found himself going alone.
A beautiful thing became saturated in our world. We lost the eyes to see it.
I am amazed at how well our senses become dulled from overuse. This is a good thing, in some instances, to avoid sensory overload.
The cold water becomes tolerable.
The unpleasant odor dissipates.
The yelling becomes background noise.
But it’s not always good.
Our favorite song becomes obnoxious.
The food we loved, tasteless.
We no longer recognize the beauty in our hands.
The day forgets its joy.
And life loses its contentment.
All from saturation.
Did you see that sunset? Yeah, I’ve seen it a thousand times.
Again, I am no theologian. But, I wonder if that’s what Jesus meant when he said, “You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again?” (Matthew 5:13)
This is a challenge, especially for the one who’s been a Christian a long time. The stories get old and lose their spark. And time spent in scripture becomes a chore. A task. A burden.
We stop hearing God’s voice.
But, one day, we went to the beach. My husband had found a new cove where the kids could jump off the rocks into the water. Same beach. New discovery. For hours they jumped, and laughed, and played. Before we were home, they asked if we could go again the next day. They had found the treasure. It was always there. They just hadn’t seen it.
Today, I opened my Bible and read, “I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.” (Isaiah 49:16). I’ve been a Christian my whole life. I never read that. The idea that I am engraved on the palm of God’s hand is beyond comprehension. And suddenly, I am swept away into the magnificent reality of God’s love for me. It’s life changing. And I want more. I want to go back and discover the treasures hidden there.
Why did my husband never tire of the beach? Because he never lost sight of its glory.
May you find the beauty of the new hiding in the normal of today.
The Stray
Photo by fancycrave.com
If you were a stray in my childhood, I collected you and brought you home. I wrapped you in cloth, found out what food you ate, fed you—by eyedropper sometimes, made you a shoe box with tissue paper nest, put your box by my pillow, and stroked your fur or feathers until you calmed and slept. Baby mice, baby birds, baby rabbits. Anything lost or abandoned or too weak to survive on its own. I had a place for you in my house and in my heart.
I thought of myself as an animal Mother Theresa. And I imagined if I lived in Calcutta, I would do the same with people.
My husband jokes that he was the final stray I brought home.
When we moved to Mexico, I carried my love for animals with me. Many days out on the desert ranch, I helped village children learn compassion and gentleness toward the animals they came in contact with. This wasn’t always an easy task because the outlook on animals is different there. For the most part, they provide a means to an end—food, protection, transportation. Very rarely are they coddled or adopted as a pet, especially in the villages. The people often struggle with feeding their own family, let alone a dog or cat. And without funds for spaying and neutering, the homeless population grows exponentially.
Extremes exist on both ends. Both cultures—whether we neglect or pamper. This isn’t about that. This is about what happens to a heart turned cold.
Many nights on the ranch, we cooked our meals outside, in the open air. We built fires and sat around them enjoying food, rest, and good stories from the day. Smells travel far on desert wind, and we often had uninvited guests on these nights. Strays looking for their next meal, their next comfort.
A few of those homeless dogs who found their way to the ranch we adopted and took them into our pack. But we had trouble with them eventually as they never fully lost their street sense. On occasion, they would attack the farmer’s livestock and damage our relationships with our neighbors. So, we stopped taking them in.
Our own dogs, two German Shepherds, helped with border control. We never trained them, they just lived off our cues. When a stray dog came onto the property, our dogs would determine how to respond by our actions. If we welcomed the animal, they would too. If we yelled to scare them off, the chase would ensue. Most often, the strays high-tailed it off the property. Our dogs would stop at the fence line and then return to the fire, a job well done.
When the work day began next morning, we’d shore up our fences and tighten our barrier against further intrusion.
One day, however, things went all wrong. I can still see the dog without effort, even years later. His image embedded in my thoughts. Rooted there to remind me of something eternal. The dog was a tan and black terrier cross, with desperate eyes. He came onto the property slowly. Slinking from the fence line, closer and closer to the warmth and smells and laughter of the circled fire.
When he got too close, I stood. My dogs came to attention. And when I yelled, “Yaah, get out of here!”, our dogs took up the chase. But the visitor did not run like most. Instead, he cowered. Curled himself in a ball while the large shepherds barked and nipped at him. He growled and nipped back, but would not be moved.
I stepped closer and reached down for a stone. The people taught us that if you are afraid of a street dog, just pretend to pick up a stone and they will run off. They know stones.
When I faked the motion, the intruder ran a few paces toward the fence, then crumpled again in the dirt.
“Get out of here,” I yelled with little response, except to rile my own dogs more.
In one final effort to be free of the trespasser, I launched the rock in my hand. Never had I had such precision in my aim or even considered the consequence of my actions. The stone found its mark and the crouched dog let out a yelp. A bitter cry from a heart of despair.
I froze in place. Dropped my arms and cried for the choice I had made. Maybe you think it’s no big deal, or you empathize with my heartache. Either way, think about the questions I considered …
What am I doing? How—how in heaven’s name—did I get here? And when did throwing rocks become justified in my mind?
I called my dogs off and approached the intruder. He remained huddled on the ground, but barred his teeth expecting the hurt to continue. But he didn’t move. Because when you have nothing left, how do you give up on the only string of hope you have?
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Then I gave him something to eat, and he never came back. But I haven’t forgotten him.
The outcast. The exiled. The unclean. Pushed to the borders and left to starve—physically, emotionally, spiritually. And we wonder why they huddle in the streets and on the corners. Why they curse and snarl, and sometimes steal. We wonder how they got there, and how we came to the place of shutting them out. Or even throwing the stone in our hand. How?
I was not who I imagined myself to be.
Why do you enter my gate when I don’t want you here? Why do you refuse to leave when you make me so uncomfortable? I have nothing for you.
Ah, but I do.
I have a shoe-box and a cloth. I have tissue paper and an eye dropper. I have a gentle hand to heal your wounds and a smile to calm your fears. And I have the One to give you—one much better at loving you than I am.
The one who removes stones from hands and hearts.
And in Him, friend—when I come to the end of my meager offering—you’ll find your hope.
Bicycle in a Box: Receiving Criticism Without Losing Myself
A bicycle comes in a box. A big brown box. When it’s emptied, the pieces scatter the drive. The bolts and screws and mini-wrenches fill the crevices. You wait patiently for your father to put it together. As he does, he explains everything to you, as fathers do. It is his job to impart wisdom. You cannot stop him from it. So, he says, “See how the chain circles around the gears? And when you change the gears on the handle bars, the chain switches from here to there and lightens the load, making it easier to pedal. The larger gear works in conjunction with the smaller gear to…” And you think… How do I remember that? My hand, the switch, the chain, the pedal… The escalating dread takes over your breathing. When the moment comes that the bike is supported in his hands and he coaxes you to climb into the seat and be propelled across the drive. You take a few steps back. Uncertainty turns to doubt. Doubt to fear. And you say, “I’m okay… where’s mom!”
Life can be like that. Instructions can overwhelm. The excitement of trying a new thing can be squelched before it can fly. Those inner voices of uncertainty, doubt, fear… failure can steal the delight of the experience very quickly. And we forfeit the joy.
As a writer, this happens daily. When I began to write, no one knew. My fingers flew over the keys creating a world all for me. Creativity flew. Characters breathed. Life came to life on the pages, and I soared with it. Until my first critique group: “You write in fragments. Get rid of passive voice. Use action beats more. Nice alliteration.” Alliteration?
Instruction is good, right? That’s how we grow. We weave the vine and prune the orchard. We teach, train, model, coach, tutor, and direct. We can be on the giving end, or on the receiving. Sometimes, unfortunately, what is meant to encourage and move us forward, finds a chink in our armor and can wound us, and we slink back.
Generally, It’s not the instruction that is the problem (at least not always). The problem is me. Sometimes I hear it and say, “Okay, that’s helpful. I’ll take that piece and apply it where it fits, where I can grow from it.” Other times, and more often than not, the instruction comes the exact way, yet I say to it, “I have failed. I am not good enough to do this. I will never measure up to that.”
The instruction hasn’t changed one jot or stroke, but the message has. And in that message, we stumble and sometimes we fall and never get back up. We forfeit the joy in the shadow of self-condemnation and fear.
How do we do it then? How do we receive instruction or criticism without losing ourselves in it? If you are like me, it can be a daily, moment by moment challenge. But here is what I’ve learned:
1. Understand the Informant
Not all of us have passed Critiquing 101. Not all of us have learned to sandwich the tidbit of negative inside the hoagie roll of positive. Some of us give “constructive feedback” 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It’s what we do, or think we need to do. Sometimes this feedback flows from a jaded heart, or a broken esteem. It is less about the receiver than about the giver. The message is not pure. It has been tainted. The challenge for all of us is never to use criticism of others to find value in ourselves. But many of us do that, right? If you are a little stupider, I’m a little smarter! It has a funny way of building us up. If we’re on the receiving end, this can be confusing, can’t it? We take in a person’s judgment without boundary. Without examination. Carte Blanche. The whole shebang. And we allow it to have great impact. Fair warning… minus scripture, the instruction may be flawed. Not all together wrong, necessarily, but a little bent. Which leads me to point number two…
2. Extract the Useful
As they say in writing, “Chew the fat, leave the bones.” That always provokes too much imagery for me, but its message is good. Take what works, leave the rest. Sometimes that’s hard when one negative can undo ten positives. When that one plays over and over in our mind and it’s all we hear. Wrong thing to chew on, right? But we all do it. And worse, we give it the power to define us.
We need to remember that people come from many journeys. These journeys have challenged them, grown them, distorted them, molded them to see things just a little bit different than we might see them. This is good. We learn from each other. But it can also be difficult. The shoes they’ve worn cannot be worn exactly by someone else. Each voice is unique. In writing, we call this the author’s voice (makes sense ;). My voice is my own. So, give me feedback, and I will strive to hear what will help me grow without changing my voice. Without changing those things that make me uniquely me. Which leads to my third point... and the most important one...
3. Find Your Value’s Source
If my value comes from others, I will never be grounded. I will be tossed back and forth, up and down, shaken by the mere breath of criticism, and never find my foothold. And often, for me, unfortunately, that is exactly where it comes from. I win an award and I am feeling very good about myself. I can do this. I’m okay… In fact, I’m more than okay, I’m great! (cue in Frosted Flakes jingle). I send out proposals of my work because who would not want it… and I wait… and I wait. And a few say, “Nah.” And I’m crushed. I’m not just crushed I’m defeated… at the core. I’m not any good. Who did I think I was… Stephen King? Get out of the Big League, kid. You’ll never measure up. Now I start thinking I can’t even write. AT ALL. By whose merit? Whose yard stick? Someone who rummaged through 200 manuscript ideas before 8:15 that morning with a hangover (who knows... but we'll give him one on principle). That person determines my value? Yes, when I let him.
However, if my worth is grounded on more. If it never changes. If it doesn’t fluctuate with the tide, or is up for grabs in the stock market. If, on the other hand, I am rooted and established in love, I will stand firm. I will know that I am eternally loved, crafted to do great things, and a vessel where the God of the universe dwells. Though I may never “make it” as a writer, I am a child of the King. And my worldly success can never hold a candle to who I really am.
And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God (Ephesians 3:17-19) (emphasis mine).
The bike is already put together. No need for assembly. It came right from the trunk and onto the drive. Before the excitement falters, get on the seat. Before the doubt sets in, pedal. Before the fear has time to grip, travel down the hill and back up again, knowing that you are fearfully and wonderfully made. And you, child of the King, keep pedaling on... because you were made for so much more!