Fine Linen, Last Bible Study Passages

Spinning and Plying (In this story, which takes place in Bible times, the spinning is done an a spindle - a rod with a clay or wood disc. Later it was done on wheels, and today it is done on machines. But the process is exactly the same. Once spun, the thread is often plied together in two, three, four, or even more plies, depending on the planned use.):
Ecclesiastes 4:12; John 17:20,21
To ponder -- How much cloth, or even thread, could be made from just one fiber, or one whole plant?
Romans 12:10, 16; Colossians 3:12-14
Weaving:
Psalm 133:1; Ephesians 4:1-6, 13
To ponder -- Whose hands are you allowing to weave the destiny of your life?
Washing (In the case of linen, washing not only cleans, but softens as well.):
Psalm 51:2, 7; Acts 22:16
To ponder -- Can one wash oneself?
Jeremiah 2:22 (Nitre or niter is a native soda in Egypt and Israel, used for washing cloth.)
What does Revelation 22:14 mean? (Check several Bible versions.)
Whitening:
Isaiah 1:18; Malachi 4:2; Matthew 13:43; Revelation 3:4, 5, 18; Mark 9:2, 3
Miscellaneous thoughts:
Did Lina recognize, even in the end, the full awesomeness of her destiny?
Where does skill, even in homely arts like spinning and weaving, come from? Exodus 35:35
Look up "linen" in a concordance and make a list of all you can find who wear fine linen. Especially notice Revelation 19:8, 14. Also note Isaiah 61:10, which does not actually mention linen by name. Are you on the list? If not, see Revelation 3:18.

The End

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, more Bible Study Passages

Drying:
Psalm 32:3-5
Have you ever felt abandoned by God and "hung out to dry"? Ask God to give you some insight into His purposes.
Psalm 22:1; Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34
Breaking (a process in which flax is beaten and broken from one end to the other. This loosens the tough inner and outer woody parts, but does not damage the fibers):
Isaiah 8:9
Does this happen only to wicked or rebellious people?
Job 9:17, 12:14; 16:14; Psalm 31:12
When the breaking process seems to go on forever, without purpose, is there any comfort to be found?
Job 5:18; Isaiah 30:26; 54:16, 17; Hosea 6:1
Scutching (a process in which the broken bits of woody fiber, called "shives," are scraped and beaten away, freeing the silky inner fibers):
Romans 7:24; I Corinthians 15:36, 37
To ponder -- if we are sinners by nature, and sin becomes a part of us, then when God takes sin away, will it feel like a loss of our own being? But is it really?
Hackling (a process in which flax fibers are drawn through progressively finer teeth to separate the long, fine fibers - "line" - fromt the short, coarse fibers - "tow". Both are useful, but they go through different processing depending on what their purpose is to be):
Revelation 3:19; I Peter 4:12, 13; I Corinthians 12
To ponder -- Which is more valuable, fine linen cloth, or burlap sacking? Why?

More tomorrow. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen Bible Study Passages

We can learn a lot from a flax plant, can't we? Using the stages of Lina's life and the following Bible passages, ask God what you can learn about your own development from something beautiful into something even more beautiful.

The Rumor:
I John 3:2; Ephesians 2:19-22
The Beginning (that seemed like the end):
Proverbs 14:12; 16:25
To ponder -- If what seems like the right way to us is really death, is it possible that what seems like death to us can be the right way?
Matthew 19:39
The theft of the seed head:
Mark 4:29; John 4:36
(What Lina didn't know is that those seds were harvested and made into flaxseed oil, which then blessed many people in many ways.)
Look up "fruit" in a concordance and study as many references as appeal to you. Especially notice John 12:24 and all of John 15.
To ponder -- When we bear fruit, is the fruit for our own use and enjoyment, or for others', or for both?
Retting (a process in which flax is soaked to soften and loosen its woody parts. Great care must be exercised to see to it that the plant is softened enough to work, but not enough to rot.):
Isaiah 8:5-8 Have you had an experience like this? Did you think you would drown?
Isaiah 40:12, first part; 43:1, 2

More tomorrow. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Finale

The movement stopped sometimes, and then went on. Fianlly it stopped and didn't start again. The linen rustled in anticipation. Would the hands take it out now? No. The sack was thrown into a dark corner, and there it lay.
They waited.
Strange sounds and smells surrounded them. Animals rustled and snuffled nearby. In the middle of the darkest darkness, there were frightening cries and groans. The cloth huddled, and waited.
Then -- it was happening! Hands opened the sack and drew out the cloth. But these were not the hands they knew! These were large hands, rough and hairy. Lina shivered fearfully.
That louder, deeper voice, the one they had heard before, said, "Is this it?"
And there was the voice they knew! "Yes."
Their beloved hands took them then, and unfolded them and smoothed them. Lina had never seen a look on the face like the look she saw now. It shimmered with such a love that she felt she would be happy to be even an old brown sack, if it made that face glow like that.
The hands spread the fine linen gently on a surface that rustled and poked. Then they laid something on the cloth. All the threads felt a shiver of excitement. It was a person! A tiny, red, wrinkled person who moved and kicked and made funny little sounds. The hands wrapped the cloth around and around the tiny body. Lina forgot all her worries and all her past. Suddenly nothing seemed more important, more exciting, no purpose could be greater than the one she now recognized. She and all the other fibers, working together, had been created for this one thing - to keep that soft, downy baby skin from touching the rough, scratchy hay. Lina snuggled close between the hands and the baby.
She was content.

The End

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Sixteen

Lina began to feel angry. She tried to drown the feeling and just enjoy the swayng ride, as she had learned to do. But the anger grew. It would have helped if she could see the face, but she couldn't. Or feel the hands. This was terrible. That was all. Terrible! Something the maker had proclaimed perfect and beautiful was to be packed away and forgotten! After all she - they - had been through!
Another long time passed. Days. Weeks? Maybe not, but it seemed like it. It was almost as bad as the early days after the plants had been torn from their field. Not because of physical pain, but because of emotional pain. Lina's anger seethed. Why should they have to just take it and take it and take it? The didn't even know what the purpose was yet! After all this time!
Some of the other threads felt the same way, but finally, quieter ones managed to have a say. They said everything they could think of to try to calm the others. One phrase stuck in Lina's mind. "The hands didn't do all this just to leave us now. It can't be for nothing. We just have to wait."
Wait! Again? Gradually, Lina calmed. Well, if nothing else, she knew how to wait. She knew, too, that the hands and the face, whether she could see them or not, were nearby. At last, she added her voice to the steady ones, and the length of linen settled with a sigh to wait. "We can imagine the face," she suggested. "We can see it in our minds. Surely it will smile again."
So they waited.

To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Fifteen

Lina had no idea how long had passed when the hands took up the cloth and held it up in the sunshine, turning it this way and that. She watched the face. Its smile seemed more glowing than ever.
"Beautiful! Perfect!" came a voice. "Fine linen, clean and bright!"
Perfect! The threads seemed to quiver in excitement. They were perfect?
The hands they had grown to love folded the cloth into a neat square and put it unto a sack made of coarser brown cloth. Then they crowded other things in on top of it. Lina was startled. More time in the dark? What was this?
The sack was tied closed and put on something that kept moving and jostling. It was almost like the old rides on carts, but not quite. For one thing, it didn't creak. And it was warm and rather soft, as if it were alive.
The cloth heard another voice, a different, deeper one. "Here, my love, let me help you up."
There was a shuffling and a sense of great upheaval. Lina tried to shift so she could see even a tiny pinch between the coarse threads of the sack. The others asked her what was happening. She wasn't sure, but she rather thought someone had climbed up beside them on - whatever it was they were tied to. The sack seemed crowded by a leg in blue wool cloth. (She found she had a new affinity for cloth of any kind.)
There was an even greater upheaval, and a steady movement began. And never stopped. On and on it went.

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Fourteen

A sharp needle with a length of thread through its eye pierced the cloth over and over, all along its two ends where it had been tied to the rods. More suffering? The hands held the cloth close, so the threads endured in silence. But Lina began to feel the chill of fear once again. She had not felt this way for a long time now. What else was to come? Well, whatever it was, it would be worth it. The gentle face seemed to believe it, so Lina believed it.
The cloth was plunged into water, hot this time. It was beaten and rubbed with some kind of powder, then put into new water and beaten some more. Finally it was twisted and wrung, stretched out, and hung over some bushes in the sun. Lina and the other threads, which had shivered and huddled even more tightly to each other, relaxed in the warm, familiar light. It was better than a dark shelf, anyway!
They were left for a long time. Lina had learned to simply enjoy what there was to enjoy. The sun was woarming and whitening the cloth. The pale gold was fading away, and the linen grew whiter and whiter. Then hands turned them from time to time so they would all whiten evenly.

To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Thirteen

[My daughter is now all registered and oriented for college, and I'm pretty sure I have several more gray hairs! Back to work. . .]

But this time the wait didn't seem so long. The hands unwound the ball and began stretching thread back and forth, back and forth, between two long rods. They seemed to stretch for a very long distance. Lina liked the fact that for once she could see. She watched the others, but mostly the face, which moved intently back and forth. It took a lot of balls of thread.
Finally, the end was tied off, and the hands took still more balls of thread and began a new action. The thread was wound lengthwise on long sticks and threaded under and over and under and over the individual threads stretched between the rods. When the hands reached one side of the group, they would turn and go over and under, over and under. Then turn, and under and over again. Between each row, a long comblike object beat the rows tightly together.
It wasn't comfortable, but when compared with all Lina had been through, it was bearable. Besides, by now she was consumed by curiosity to see what on earth would be the final result of all these unbelievable happenings. And this time, she could keep her eyes on the face all the time. Now and then, it smiled, and ran a hand the length of the . . .
"Cloth! We're becoming cloth!" came the whisper.
"Fine linen cloth, for something beautiful!"
Lina felt a thrill of excitement. Who would ever have believed, when they all stood together in the field, waving blue blossoms, that they could become cloth? What would they be made into? A fine robe for a rich person? A wedding garment, perhaps?
As always, it took time. Days passed. Progress seemed slow. Every night when the hands stopped and the sun went down, Lina tried to stretch to see how many more inches of cloth had been created. Not many, she thought.
But at last the day came when the hands cut the long swath of linen from the rods. They were finished! And beautiful! And valuable!

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Twelve

[I've been gone, then unwell, then overwhelmed by busyness. . . D'ja miss me? :-)]

At last, they felt the rod turning again, but this time something was different. They were being unrolled from the rod. Lina stretched and breathed deeply. Better!
But no. They were rolled up again, as tightly as before, and laid on yet another shelf.
Lina sighed. On second thought, she tried to decide if she would rather have things happening to her than to lie around waiting all the time.
She had not yet decided which she preferred when the hands came for them again. Two rolls of thread were taken from the shelf. Their ends were tied together, and once again they were set swinging and twirling, this time in the opposite direction from the last time. The two threads twisted together to make one stronger thread. Lina had long since made friends with the fibers which were now one with her, and she found she rather enjoyed the feeling of the hands running the length of the thread, smoothing, guiding, controlling the twist.
Then they were rolled up into balls again. "Oh, well," they murmured to each other. "Waiting time again."

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Eleven

A long time passed. The rod rolled and stopped, rolled and stopped. The new threads shifted against each other. Lina had plenty of time to think over all that had happened to her. This waiting was almost like the time she had spent underwater, or drying in the field. In fact, aside from the terrible beating, it seemed most of her life had been made up of waiting. At least this time was not as terrible as some of the others.
The threads began to whisper together again. After awhile, it was almost as cozy as the time on the dark shelf. Lina learned that - according to some of the fibers, who had overheard it from someone else - they were now linen thread, and that linen thread was the strongest and most useful thread of all.
"We'll be made into something beautiful," they whispered.
"Will be?" demanded Lina. "We already have been. At least we were beautiful! Now, I'm not so sure."
"There's more, " came the reply. "They're not finished with us yet."
More? Lina wasn't sure she could handle any more.

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Ten

Lina was surprised and a little disturbed when the hands began to pull apart the carefully shaped cone of fibers. Just a few fibers at a time, but enough to disarrange them and make them less appealing to the eye. She watched carefully. One hand would dip into a little pot of liquid, then pull a few fibers from the cone. The other hand held a strange, thin rod with a clay disc at the bottom and a thread twisted around its stem. The hand with the fibers somehow attached them to the thread and then set the rod spinning, hanging on the thread. Then the hand pulled out a few more fibers.
Spin. . .pull. . .spin. . .pull. . .
Thread! That was it - the hands were making thread from the fibers. Lina was disappointed. What was so important or beautiful about thread? She felt a tug. Her own fibers were starting to be pulled into the twist. But they were mixed up with someone else's fibers. Surely that was a mistake! She resisted and pulled, trying not to become inextricably entwined with fibers that were different from her own, but it was no use. As always, Lina was powerless to stop or change what happened to her.
There was a jerk, and a lump appeared. "Just as I suspected," Lina thought irritably.
The hands tugged, and a sharp fingernail picked at a short piece of fiber, smoothing out the rough spot. Lina grew dizzy as she spun ever faster toward the rod with the whirling disc. The disc stopped, to her relief, but the next thing she knew, Lina and all the other fibers were rolled up tightly around the rod just above the disc. It was uncomfortably tight and stuffy. She felt sure she would suffocate. She had always enjoyed the company of other flax plants, and lately of other rolls of fine fiber, but really. This was carrying togetherness too far!

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Nine

One day the hands came again. They sorted through the piles of fiber and picked out several of the longest loops, including Lina. Carrying them out into the sunshine, the hands tied the fibers all together at the top. Curious, Lina watched the face, as was now her habit. It was smiling, so she looked at herself and the other fibers, trying to see what the face saw. To her surprise, she and the other flax plants, once tall, strong individuals standing next to each other in a sunny field, had now become one hank of pale, silky gold, sliding and shimmering through the hands that once had hurt them, but now caressed them.
Lina thought about the first time she had recognized her new self, after the beating, but before the combings. She had thought she was beautiful then. Now she (and the others, of course) were even lovelier. She waited with some nervousness, but mostly with eagerness, to see what would happen next. The hands went through some complicated maneuvers, laying out the fibers in thin layers, then crisscrossing them and rolling them around a cone of some sort, wrapping them with ribbons, and putting them on a stand. They were as tall as the person now.
Lina and the others smiled at each other with deep satisfaction. This was more like it! Now they would delight the eyes of all beholders, as they used to do in their lost field, instead of languishing on a dark shelf!
Privately, Lina thought it was a little crowded, but together, she and the others were a fine sight, and the rumor had now been proven at least partially true. They were beautiful, if not valuable. She sighed with relief.

To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire
Note to faithful readers: I have been gone several days, and will be gone for a week, and am not sure I will have internet access. So you may not hear from me for awhile. Aren't you glad you aren't left hanging on some horrible cliffhanger? :-)

Fine Linen, Chapter Eight

The next thing Lina knew, the hands were carrying her toward a horrifying set of teeth, rows of teeth, sharper and fiercer than those that had stolen her seeds. A thrill of fear overtook her again. She flinched as she was flung over them and dragged through. Once again, parts of herself were torn away - shorter fibers which the person who worked with her collected and kept.
By now, Lina thought there might be a purpose to all this torture, so she tried to endure it bravely. But every time she sighed with relief, thinking it was finally over, she was taken to another set of teeth, finer and closer together than the ones before. Oddly enough, the combing hurt less than she expected it to. She began to watch the face above her. When it smiled, all her troubles were bearable.
It seemed an eternity since she had stood in her field in the sun, gossiping with the other plants.
Finally, she was looped into a twisted postion that would have been impossible in the old life, and laid on a shelf next to other loops of fiber. Left to themselves, they began to talk and whisper together, comparing experiences.
Some had gone through more than others. Some were short, some were long. Some were slick and shiny, others not so much. But one thing they all had in common. By listening carefully, they had learned that they were an entirely new thing. It seemed they were no longer flax. Now they were something called linen. They all agreed that it was a wonderful thing to be, and that their troubles had been worthwhile. They were, indeed, more beautiful than they had ever been, even in bloom. Yet here they were, piled together on a dark shelf. Was that it? Weren't they to be seen and appreciated?
It was all very hard to understand. Lina gave it up and awaited developments.

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Seven

At long, long last, the beating slowed and stopped. Lina gradually became aware that something new was happening. She was being pulled slowly through hands that, for once, felt gentle. Fingers combed through her and picked out a bit of chaff here and there.
And the face that bent over her - the face was smiling!
Lina looked down at herself. She felt dizzy with shock. She was - she was - she didn't know what she was! She was something new entirely, something she had never seen before. Gone was her hard outer stalk, and gone, too, her stiff inner core. What was left was a drift of long, golden fibers that flowed and rippled in the gentle hands that turned her this way and that. The fingers could sift right through her. It was a strange sensation, but at least it didn't hurt, even when they found and removed another bit of stalk that still clung to her.
Lina couldn't believe it. Had the old rumor been true, after all?

To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Six

One day, the people came back. Lina watched with growing curiosity as they gathered the bundles of dried flax plants and piled them on the cart yet again. She could not imagine what they could want with dried, dead brown stalks, but clearly they had some purpose in mind. People were mysterious creatures at best, but they surely wouldn't do all this work for nothing. This time as she jounced along in the cart, she actually felt some stirrings of anticipation for her fate.
But when they reached their destination, and armloads of flax were taken off the cart, she began to hear strange and frightening sounds. There was a loud, repeated banging that went on and on. Under the clatter, she could just make out a sort of rustling and cracking. She began to shiver again, and when the hands came for her, dread seized her.

The truth was far worse than she had imagined. She was laid across a hard, uneven surface and beaten again and again, methodically, from one end to the other and back again.

Why? Why? What joy could these people possibly take in this pointness torture? If Lina could have screamed, she would have. But as always, she was powerless to do anything but endure. The face that leaned above her, sweating from the hard labor, showed neither pleasure nor pain. It scanned her length imperturbably, then hands turned her and beat her some more.

Finally, broken in a million pieces, Lina was taken off the hard surface and flung over a different one. She was too battered and spent even to feel fear. But no, the beating wasn't over. This time the pounding was accompanied by scraping with a hard, flat blade of some kind. She could feel the broken piarts of herself chipping and breaking away. Over and over, she was flung this way and that, pummeled and scraped. More and more of her very self was lost. It seemed to go on forever.

To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,

Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Five

When the creaky cart came again, Lina didn't even complain. She looked forward with some curiosity to what would happen next. Perhaps there really was a purpose to all these things, even though it would clearly not result in anything beautiful! She had never felt less beautiful.
The wet plants were taken out of the water and piled on the cart. Then it rattled and groaned its way to whatever came next. Lina waited while bunches of dripping plants were carried away. When her turn came, she was astonished to find herself tied with many other plants in a bundle and propped in the chill sun in their own old familiar field! There were the blue hills, and the road, and the whitewashed houses. When the people had left and the breeze began to dry the flax, they whispered among themselves again, for the first time in a long time.
"Why?"
That was the uppermost question. What had been the purpose of all these terrible experiences, only to be put back in the same field where they had been born? They had already been standing here, doing perfectly well, minding their own business, and delighting the eyes of all who passsed. Now they were only ugly brown, half-rotted stalks. They couldn't even stand without being tied together. What was the point?
"Well, at least," said Lina, "we're in the sun again! And standing, more or less. That's something."
And the other plants agreed that it was.
So they stood and basked. But they began to feel their skin, which had been so strong and flexible, peeling and cracking in the sun and wind. It got worse and worse - some pieces actually chipped off and blew away - but no one came to do anything about it.
And time rolled on.

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Four

Lina barely noticed when this cart started up with a jerk and rolled somewhere else. She awaited her destiny in silence.
The cart stopped in a place where the air was filled with a strange rippling sound. Yet again, hands came for the headless flax plants. What now? Were they going to throw them away?
It was a greater shock than all those before when Lina found herself plunged under cold water and left to drown. All the other plants were lined up near her, and the people had left. Nobody whispered silly rumors. Nobody said anything. There was nothing they could do but give up and wait for the slow-moving water to finish them.
Time passed. The sun came and went. Sometimes someone would come and turn all the plants with a fork, and pick some up and look at them. It occurred to Lina to wonder why the people were taking all this trouble over dead stalks. Was there, in fact, still some use for them?
After awhile, she grew to almost like the gentle movement of the water. It was much like the swaying of the wind she had loved all her life.
She felt herself growing thick and soft.

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Fine Linen, Chapter Three

After a long time, rough hands picked up the pile of flax in which Lina was buried. Together, the plants were all carried somewhere in a creaking, jolting cart. One by one,they were taken off the cart and away. Lina shivered as she waited and wondered. What now?
Finally the hands came for her. They carried her to an evil-looking comb with long, sharp teeth, and to her despair, they dragged her though the teeth, removing the one good thing she had left - all her seeds. Her seedhead had been Lina's pride and joy, nourished and fed through the late summer. She had given up her beautiful blue blossoms for those seeds. Now they were gone, and she was an empty shell - just a dead, brown stalk.
She was thrown on a different cart with other headless stalks, and lay there, dazed.
It didn't matter now what happened to her.

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

All material copyright 2000 Debbonnaire Kovacs. No copying or sharing without permission.

Fine Linen, Chapter Two

One day, excitement floated again. People came, many people, colorfully garbed and laughing. Lina lifted her heavy head. What would happen now? The people spread out through the field, calling to each other and singing. They bent and straightened, bent and straightened. It was some time before Lina could see what they were doing, and when she did see, a shock of dismay ran right down to her roots. They were killing the flax! They leaned down grasped a plant near the ground and pulled, jerking it out, roots and all, and throwing it on a pile. Then they moved methodically on to the next.
Lina shivered with terror. The songs and bright clothes took on a sinister meaning. The golden sun, which had felt so warm and nurturing, now seemed only distant and unconcerned. What could she do?
Nothing, of course. Nothing at all.
A woman came down her row, bending and jerking, bending and jerking. Lina's neighbor. Then Lina. She felt a dreadful rending as her roots tried to cling to the warm, familiar soil, and then a shock as she landed on the pile.
And that was that. The end. Obviously, she would never be beautiful again, let alone valuable.
More plants landed on top of Lina, and the sun disappeared in darkness and the smell of death.
The rumor had been just that - a lie.

To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire
all material copyright Debbonnaire Kovacs, 2000. No copying or sharing without permission.

Fine Linen, Bright and Clean, Chapter One

Once upon a time, long ago and far away. . .
a field of flax waved and nodded in the sun. A whisper of excitement had come down the cool breeze. The flax plants leaned toward each other in order to hear better.
". . . something beautiful!" came the whisper. "Something radiant and fine!"
A particularly tall and graceful flax plant - we'll call her Lina - bobbed urgently. "What?" she rustled to her neighbor. "What are they saying?"
"It's some kind of opportunity," the neighbor replied. "We can be made into something fine and beautiful."
"We're already beautiful," Lina pointed out, looking over the sea of dancing blue blossoms.
Her neighbor bounced a shrug. "Well, I don't know. That's what they say. Something even more beautiful, and extremely valuable."
"Valuable?" Lina swayed thoughtfully. It would be nice to be special and valuable.
Over the next days and weeks the rumors grew and faded like the weather - sometimes lively and energetic, sometimes dull or silent altogether. Lina only knew that if the opportunity came to her, she would take it.
Blue petals fell into the wind, and seed pods swelled. The weather and the flax felt heay and lethargic. Perhaps it had been only a rumor, after all.
To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire
all material copyright 2000 by Debbonnaire Kovacs. No copying or sharing without permission.

Transplant Bible passages

It's taken me years to accept that although God does not cause the bad things that happen to me, it is truly His hand that is wielding my circumstances, good, bad, and indifferent, to shape me into the person He wants me - needs me - to be. And that I have a choice in this process. I can stop it and go in a different direction at any time.
This story is very autobiographical. People who know me well will know what some of the knives were, and how I screamed. Some of them were my own sins. As you read, can you see that some of the things that are so painful in your life, and seem so pointless, are being handled by a gentle and expert Surgeon who knows and loves you like no other?

For those who would like deeper study, here are some Bible texts for the different elements of the parable we have just finished.

• The surgery: Ezekiel 11:19; 36:26; Psalm 51:10
• The instruments: Romans 8:28; Isaiah 64:8; Jeremiah 18:1-12; Isaiah 54:16-17
• Pain medication: Psalm 30:11; 50:14-15; 51:8; 56:8-13; Isaiah 61:3; Philippians 4:4-6
• Emergency room nurses and EMTs: Leviticus 19:34; Isaiah 32:1-2; 35:3-4; 40:1-2; Galatians 6:1; Hebrews 5:1-2
• Exercises: Psalm 18:29; 119:32; 150; Isaiah 40:29-31; II Corinthians 5:7; Hebrews 12:1-2
• Breathing Exercises: (Prayer is the breath of the soul.) Psalm 55:17; Danial 6:10; Matthew 26:41; Mark 13:33; John 17; Romans 12:12; I Corinthians 7:5; Ephesians 6:18; Philippians 4:6; Colossians 4:2; I Thessalonians 5:17
• Daily anti-rejection medicine: John 15:4; I Corinthians 15:30; II Corinthians 3:18; 4:7-10

I hope you have enjoyed the story. Coming next:

Lina is a flax plant, growing happily in the sun, minding her own business, when she hears a rumor that she can be made into "something beautiful." Isn't she already beautiful? Does she want or need to be even more beautiful? Well, why not?

What happens next is shocking. . .

Repairing the Breach,

Debbonnaire

Transplant, Final Chapter

Every week since we had had our surgeries, we heart patients all gathered in the throne room of God to sing His praises with the angels, and thank Him for making us new. We drank the water of life, and washed our robes in the purity provided by the sacrifice the Son had made for us. We always left feeling completely refilled with joy and life and peace.
One day, after one of these meetings, I looked at Jesus and saw that He was gazing at something far away. His face, instead of reflecting joy, was wet with tears. Surprised, I went closer to Him, and followed His gaze. Far away, I saw the black fog that covered the pits of hell. I shivered.
"Can't you hear them?" Jesus whispered.
Straining my ears, I finally heard what He heard, weeping and hopeless sobbing. I remembered what that felt like, and tears came to me, too. I glanced behind me at the crowd of singing heart patients and thought, Those poor hurting people could be here with us.
"Will you go?" asked Jesus quietly.
I squeezed my eyes shut. "I'm afraid."
"I know, but I will be with you."
"Lord," I said hesitantly, "Forgive me, but. . . You were with me last time, and I was still scared, and it still hurt."
"Yes," was all He answered.
I sighed. "Will You hold my hand?"
Looking up, I saw His smile was back
"What a silly question! So. . . will you go with Me?"
I folded my hand inside His. "Okay," I said.
I have a feeling. There is at least one thing I have caught onto, in all these years.
I don't think the story is over.

The End

Tomorrow, for those who are interested, I will post the Bible passages that go with Transplant, along with some thought questions. If you wish to purchase a copy of the booklet, contact me. Remember, this is copyrighted material and may not be copied or published in any manner without permission from me.

Happy Easter! May the Dayspring from on high rise in your hearts and repair all your breaches!

Debbonnaire

Transplant, Chapter Ten

Quietly He would ask, "Have you been taking your medicine? Are you eating and drinking properly and doing your breathing exercises?"
I would have to hang my head and admit that I was not. So together, we would start again. It even happened that I had to go back to the hospital for some reconstructive surgery or special therapy. Then Jesus would ask again. "Will you go back with Me?"
But I couldn't. I just couldn't even think abut that horrible pit of darkness and fear, let alone go back there! Yet I didn't want to disobey. "I'll think about it," I would tell Him.
"Then come on some shorter journeys with Me," He invited.
So I did. I found out what incredible joy it is to tell others about the new heart Jesus offers, and to let them feel my pulse, and watch me walk and run. If they said anything like "You're so good at that!" I would hastily say, "Oh, no, it's all Jesus! He did surgery on me, and gave me a new heart. You should have seen how faint and weak I used to be! Even now, if I don't take my medicine, I start getting sick and dizzy."
If I had to , to make them believe me, I would pull back just the edge of the collar of my robe and show them part of my scar. But I never showed anyone the whole ugly thing.
It was starting to bother me more and more. How could I refuse Him anything, the one Person who had been willing to give up His life for me? When I caught a glimpse of His face, through the love there shone a little wistfulness, and it made me so sad, I found myself looking at His face less often.
Then I was really miserable.
To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Transplant, Chapter Nine

In the convalescent unit, there were other heart surgery patients, also recovering from their ordeals. As we talked,we found that each of our stories was different. We learned that we could encourage or discourage each other by telling them, depending on our attitudes and the ways we told the stories. We did our breathing exercises together, and learned to walk and not be weary, and even to run and not faint. We reminded each other to take our medicine.
However, I learned that there were also those living there who had not had heart surgery Some were living with us because they were trying to make up their minds about the surgery. They watched us closely all the time, trying to decide if the surgery was effective, and it it was worth the pain. Others did not have the surgery because they were certain they did not need it. No matter how pale their faces or how blue their lips, the insisted they were fine. No matter how faint they became, they said it was perfectly normal, and we were foolish to say there was more to life. It was very frustrating. I was so glad Jesus had convinced me to led Him do the whole operation.
Sometimses I forgot to take my medicine. When that happened, it was easier to drink a little less, and eat just a few of the foods I wasn't supposed to eat. Soon I would be feeling tired and sad again. Then the ones who did not have a new heart pointed at me and laughed. "See?" they jeered. "Doesn't last very long, does it?"
Sadly I would turn to Jesus, who was still at my side, thought I had not noticed Him much lately. "Lord, what can I do? Why am I so weak? Didn't You say this new heart would last forever?"

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire
check out my website at www.debbonnaire.com

Transplant, Chapter Eight

One day, Jesus told me I was ready to be released to the convalescent unit. He sat with me and gave me careful instructions on the care of my new heart. There were certain things I could eat, and certain things I must not eat. I was to be careful to eat regularly, and to drink freely of the water of life. I was to exercise a little more every day. I must breathe deeply, and learn a special set of breathing exercises to do morning, noon, and evening. Then Jesus gave me a bottle of medicine. "You must take this medicine every single day for the rest of your life. "
I looked at the bottle. "I don't understand. I have a new, healthy heart now. Why must I still take medicine?"
"You have a new heart," said Jesus, "but until I end this world and create the new one, you still have the same old body. It sees this new heart as an intruder, and will build up antibodies every day to try to get rid of it. This medicine will prevent your body from rejecting the new heart and either killing you, or requiring another new surgery."
I shuddered at the thought.
"Your body will not miss a day of building these antibodies," warned Jesus. "You must not miss a day of your medicine. If you do miss a day, start taking it again immediately, and talk to Me about it. I will still be with you everywhere you go, and I will be watching over you and your new heart. And now, I have a request to make of you."

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Transplant, Chapter Seven

I could hear voices in the room. "She looks so much better!" whispered one. "See her improved color?"
"Listen to her regular breathing!" said another. "And have you noticed how even the pulse on the monitor is?"
I did not feel better! I hurt everywhere. I wondered what they meant.
"I think I might have that surgery," murmured one voice.
"I'm thinking about it, too," said the other.
I couldn't believe it. These people were crazy! How could they look at this bloody, bruised, broken mess, and want to have the same surgery?!
Jesus put one cool lhand on my forehead and checked my pulse with the other. "How are you feeling?"
I looked into His eyes, and remembered why a person would want the surgery. "Better," I said.
Little by little, the pain began to fade. Recovery room nurses with gentle hands tended me carefully. They helped me to sit, and then to stand. Lo and behold, my heart really did beat evenly. With my nurse beside me, I could walk and not feel dizzy or out of breath. It was amazing! I was getting well.
Surely the story was almost over.

To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Transplant, Chapter Six

My apologies. I have been away for a week and a half, and didn't remember what a cliffhanger I'd left this on! Forging onward:

For three endless days, He lay dead. With Him, I lay dead, too.
Then His Father called Him, and to the singing and shouting of angels, He stood again, a long scar the only sign of His ordeal, and put His own perfect heart in my chest.
Tears pouring, I decided to try His medicine. My voice shook, but I sang. And I learned it was true - the pain did not go away, but it became bearable.
"My heart is steadfast, oh, Lord," I wept. "Before the nations, I will sing. Awake my spirit, awake my spirit. I will awake at dawn of day." I could hear angels around the table singing with me, and whispering encouragement.
Stitch by careful stitch, Jesus began to connect His heart to my arteries. Sometimes I forgot to sing. "Oh, Lord, how long?" I wailed. "Can't You go faster?"
"No, My dear one. I won't risk one wrong stitch in you. Sing!"
I shut my eyes and sang. The tears didn't stop. But now I knew I had something to sing about. "Forgive me," I whispered. He smiled gently. And kept stitching. It seemed to last for years. Sometimes I faded in and out of consciousness again.
Finally I awoke and found myself in the recovery room. Disoriented, I tried to look around, but I couldn't see very well, and tubes seemed to sprout from me like weeds in a neglected garden.

To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Transplant, Chapter Five

Did I! I wanted nothing more in life than for Him to stop. The tears of hell seemed preferable. I opened my mouth to say yes. Then I saw His face. His lips trembled, and tears of anxiety stood in His eyes. "Please don't make Me stop," He whispered.
"No," I gasped. "Don't stop."
"Then sing."
"About what?" I demanded. "I don't have anything to sing about!"
He sighed.
I wept, He worked, and at long last, He lifted that ugly, stony, useless heart from my chest. Then He bared His own chest and cut a long line down its center.
I screamed again, in shock. "What are You doing?"
Through His own pain, Jesus gasped, "I'm going to give you My heart."
"But, Lord! What will happen to You? Will your own heart grow back?"
Jesus looked into my eyes and hesitated. "I believe it will," He said at last. "But if not, I am willing to die forever, if it means that you can live."
And I watched in horrified silence as He cut out His own heart, and fell to the floor, dead.

To be continued

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Transplant, Chapter Four

"No, child," said Jesus. "I need you awake for this operation. You are the only one who can tell Me how far I may go with you. If you insist that I stop, I will do so. However, I will give you an effective medicine against the pain. If you sing praises, you will find it can be borne. You do want a new heart, don't you?"
I shut my eyes, gritted my teeth, and whispered, "Yes."
The angels held me immobile, and the Surgeon cut down the center of my chest right to the bone. I screamed. His hands never wavered. He split my sternum and held back my ribs with retractors. I shrieked and cried and sobbed.
"Sing praises," pleaded Jesus. "Sing, child!" His voice trembled with shared grief, but His hand never did, as He reached for my bulbous, diseased heart.
Sing praises! Impossible! Ridiculous! Angrily I screamed, "How could You do this to me?"
"Do you want Me to stop?"
Of course I did! Oh, how I wanted Him to stop! "No," I groaned.
One by one, He began to cut the connections that held my old heart to my body. But, oh, it took so long! When would He be finished? I faded in and out of consciousness.
He asked again, "Do you want me to stop?"

To be continued

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Transplant, Chapter Three

When I next looked at Jesus, He was wearing a white lab coat. My smile faded in bewilderment. This had never been included in my imaginings of heaven. Angels came toward us pushing a hospital gurney, and Jesus picked me up and laid me on it.
"Lord," I faltered, "what are you doing?"
He nodded to the angels, and they began pushing me. "It's time for your heart surgery," said Jesus, and we went through a door I had not noticed before, into a brightly lighted operating room.
Heart surgery?! But - I had had the new birth! I was a whole new person! Now that He mentioned it, I knew it was true that my heart was not very regular, and breathing sometimes came hard for me. But I hadn't felt any pain since He had picked me up, down in that pit. Surely I would be all right now. Heart surgery?
Tubes and lines of life support were attached to my body. I turned my head and saw the tray of shining instruments. Scalpels of circumstance, of providence, some I couldn't identify, and of course, large and double-edged, so sharp its edge glinted in the overhead lights, the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God.
Terrified, I saw Jesus pick up a knife of circumstance and hold it over my bared chest. With a scream, I reached up to grab His hand.
"Lord! Aren't You at least going to put me to sleep?"

To be continued

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Transplant, Chapter Three

When I next looked at Jesus, He was wearing a white lab coat. My smile faded in bewilderment. This had never been included in my imaginings of heaven. Angels came toward us pushing a hospital gurney, and Jesus picked me up and laid me on it.
"Lord," I faltered, "what are you doing?"
He nodded to the angels, and they began pushing me. "It's time for your heart surgery," said Jesus, and we went through a door I had not noticed before, into a brightly lighted operating room.
Heart surgery?! But - I had had the new birth! I was a whole new person! Now that He mentioned it, I knew it was true that my heart was not very regular, and breathing sometimes came hard for me. But I hadn't felt any pain since He had picked me up, down in that pit. Surely I would be all right now. Heart surgery?
Tubes and lines of life support were attached to my body. I turned my head and saw the tray of shining instruments. Scalpels of circumstance, of providence, some I couldn't identify, and of course, large and double-edged, so sharp its edge glinted in the overhead lights, the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God.
Terrified, I saw Jesus pick up a knife of circumstance and hold it over my bared chest. With a scream, I reached up to grab His hand.
"Lord! Aren't You at least going to put me to sleep?"

To be continued

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Transplant, Chapter Two

. . . He scooped me up in His powerful arms and carried me away with Him.
He carried me to heaven. To heaven! Right into His holy Father's presence. I hid my still-crying eyes in His shoulder against the blinding light, but Jesus set me down, and I stood there trembling. Angels hurried toward us, and when I sneaked glances at their faces, instead of seeing the disgust I expected, I saw such shining joy that I was blinded again.
The Holy Spirit wrapped me in arms of tenderness and peace, like the love of a thousand mothers in one Being, and between them, Father, Son, and Spirit took away my putrefying rags and burned them.
A stream of water like melted diamonds rushed and flashed from the mighty throne, and They immersed me in it, scrubbing with tender but thorough hands. I watched as the accumulated filth and crust flowed away from me and was lost forevcer. I was taken out of the water, dried in life-giving light and warmth, and dressed in a white robe that I fingered in awe. Soft as satin, thick as wool, light as. . . light! The same thing Jesus was wearing, in fact.
Then They made me drink from the water, too, glass after sparkling glass, until I felt the bubble and flash of new life flowing through every vein and capillary. Standing once more before the Father - before my Father - I wondered, was this really me? Would I wake up and find it was only a delusion?
Nervously, I looked around, and for the first time, saw clearly the faces of those who surrounded me. Every face was wreathed in smiles of delight and joy and love. The angels wrapped themselves in their wings and bowed before the throne, and I bowed with them. Then they burst into songs of praise, and through new tears, I sang too.
It was true! This was the real, new me!
I thought the story was over.

To be continued

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

A New Direction

Frequently, when I tell a children's story at church, adults come up to me to thank me, telling me that my way of putting the principles of faith and God's love into visual images helps them, too. So some years ago I had the idea of beginning a series of small booklets called Pictures of Salvation: For People Who Don't Like Big Words. I have three of these written, and several more in my head, but never quite knew what to do with them or how to market them. Today is your lucky day! I've decided to publish them in serial form, here on my blog, free for all. If you should decide you would like a booklet of your own, you may contact me for information and I will send one for any size of donation to cover my postage, handling, paper, and ink.
The first one I'm going to publish here was actually Book Two, but it fits with what I've said so far in this meandering journal. It's a "told" story, not in my usual fictional style as the others will be.
Warning: It's pretty intense. Some people don't like it.

TRANSPLANT
copyright 1999
Please do not use any portion without permission. Don't worry - I'll likely give it. I just want to know.

Once upon a time, I was in hell. For me hell was not a place of flames and heat, but of bitter cold, deathly blackness, slime and smell and heartbreaking loneliness. It was a place where I huddled into myself, a place where breathing and sobbing meant the same thing.
Jesus has been to hell too. I know because He came there to get me. He came right through that thick, black, slimy wall as if it weren't there, and with Him came light and warmth. Hell was uglier than ever now that I could see it in His light. I looked around in revulsion, and then down at myself. I realized with horror that I was filthier and uglier and bloodier than my surroundings.
Miserably, I tried to scuttle back into a darker corner so He wouldn't see me, but He came directly to my side and held out His arms to me. I stared at Him, uncomprehending.
"Come here, child," He said gently.
I held up my arms like a baby, and He scooped me up in His powerful arms and carried me away. . .

to be continued

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

The Big Question

Blog warning! Having a bouncing baby blog tempts one to become self-indulgent and maudlin.
Back on February 2, when I said I'd been figuring out an issue, and wondered if my digging into it might benefit others as well, I had no intention of rambling on for weeks about it!
Here's the point: Because of a leak in my memory chamber, or something, I never know when I'm going to forget something important, thus causing me to either let someone down, or fail at something in a spectacular and painful way. The crutches I figured out for myself are two (a good and useful number for crutches).
1. I must write everything, and I do mean everything, down.
2. I must look at my lists constantly, all day long. This means that during particularly high-event or high-stress or low energy times in my life, all of which happen regularly, I actually wear a tiny notebook and pen fastened to my clothing. I call it my External Memory.
Today, my life is under better control, and I can usually remember most things. I am always excited and proud when I remember something without checking my list, or even without writing it down - a dangerous risk to take, still.
So the background anxiety with which I live is a little lower in intensity, but I still have to worry all the time about whether I am succeeding, or forgetting, or . . . well, basically, pleasing ALL OF THE PEOPLE ALL OF THE TIME! (A separate, but related problem, I know. . .)
Thus the unusual fear of criticism. Here's the question, and it's a serious one, a question I have to face repeatedly:
Am I, in fact, capable of achieving a useful life? Of using to their fullest the cluster of gifts God has given me? Of exercising the deep compassion that my past has engendered in me for faulty humans? Or should I go back in the cave, because my best efforts may really hurt people?
Not to mention hurting me!
Each time I go through this soul-searching it's a little clearer to me, and this is the clearest it's been, so this blog has been of use to me, at least, if not to anyone else. But I'm still not entirely sure of the answer.
I can't quite quit, so I never quite do. . . I go back in the cave and cry and lick my wounds for awhile. Then I obsess and make myself sick over how to make everything perfect the next time. Oh, and by the way, the particular episode of criticism with which this particular episode of soul-searching began? It was, in fact, unjust. I did not fail, except in the sense of not meeting someone's expectations, always very painful to me, but I cannot and never will meet everyone's expectations. That doesn't seem to stop me from obsessing.
Well, enough of that. I think I'll just leave the question. I have to re-answer for myself daily, and I suppose you do, too. For now, I'll get up and take one more step.
Next week, an entirely new, and infinitely more interesting subject!

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

A Disability

I liked - almost loved - my new counselor. So I was horrified the first time I forgot an appointment. I apologized abjectly, with the usual feelings of shame and impotence. It happened several times. Desperately, I tried different ways of reminding myself. I begged her to show me what I could do differently.
She told me that I subconsciously wanted to miss. How could that be? I couldn't make her understand how longingly I looked forward to each chance to talk to her. If I really wanted to come, obviously I would remember.
"I'll help you by raising the stakes," she said. "The next time you miss, you'll have to pay full price."
I was terrified. How could I remember? What else could I do?
I'll never forget that week. Every day, I jerked, adrenaline flooding my chest. Today? No. The weakness of relief left me shaky. As the day approached, these panics were more frequent. On the day, I had a homeschool meeting, then choir practice. I must leave practice precisely on time.
The appointment was on my wall calendar, in my purse calendar. I told my children, tied a string around my wrist, and told my friends at the meeting. "I must leave immediately after practice! Please don't let me forget!"
All morning I jerked to attention at irregular intervals, fearfully checking the clock.
One of the attacks of adrenaline occurred on the way home. And this time it was too late. I realized, to my horror, I had stood and talked after practice, with never a thought of the appointment, and it was now too late. I can't describe the tears, or the helplessness. What was wrong with me?
At home, hands shaking, I called the counselor's office. Her receptionist answered. I detailed for her, fighting tears, all the steps I had taken to ensure that I would not fail this time. "What," I asked miserably, "could I have done that I didn't do?"
"I don't know," she said, "but I am instructed to bill you for the full $60."
"I'll can only pay $5 a month," I replied dully. "I won't be back until the bill is paid in full."
In truth, I never paid, and I never went back. No one ever contacted me. I am sure this proved to the counselor's satisfaction that I really had not cared.
As for me, it took a long time to get over it, if in fact I am over it, and I realized that I had a genuine disability. Like many others who must cope with disabilities, I was going to require crutches of some sort. Clearly no one was going to help me. Somehow, I must help myself.
To be continued. . .

Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Lost. . .

I am much more likely to fail at some things than Other People are.
On the face of it this is a truism. Of course we're all more likely to fail at some things than others. I, for instance, am likely to fail dramatically at playing the Warsaw Concerto, and you really, trust me, do not want me flying your airplane!
What I mean, however, is that while everyone makes mistakes, everyone forgets things, and everyone sometimes forgets something important and really screws up, "normal"(?) people do not forget as much as I do.
I have forgotten to show up for classes. . . that I was teaching.
I have planned things I particularly looked forward to, eagerly, day by day, "Is it time to go yet?" then hour by hour as the time wound down toward the longed-for event, then not only forgotten the event, but not thought of it again for two months.
I fairly commonly panic while on familiar roads near home, where I drive every day, wondering where I am and if I am headed toward home or not. This happens more at night than in the day, when landscapes suddenly seem terrifyingly unfamiliar.
Once, in my early 30s, I drove home alone to Ohio from Michigan, and found myself in Illinois.
I have to think about it to know whether I have brushed my teeth today, and I regularly forget to eat.
In short, I am not a dependable person. Deep breath. That hurts.
Am I sure I want to publish this where the world can see it?
What this means is that I travel through my days washed in low-level anxiety (high-level, killer anxiety if I am under unusual stress, because then I forget much more), constantly checking. Have I remembered to do what I said I would? Is there somewhere I am supposed to be? Am I letting someone down?
Story:
In my mid-30s, in the Dark Years, I actually had the blessed chance to get counseling from a sliding-scale county counseling agency. For $5 instead of $60, I could talk to a trained person. This, mind you, was in the era when I still believed I must simply be lazy, or something. Surely, if I tried hard enough, I could live the normal, only-sometimes-forgetful lives I saw people around me living.
I really liked this counselor. She was pretty young, and I wondered how she knew enough about life in general to counsel people older than herself, who had been through experiences she could only read about, but she was so kind and compassionate. She didn't think I was lazy, or a bad person. She believed I could succeed, and she believed she could help me. So I believed her, too. I looked forward passionately to each session, and hated when they were over. Somebody to listen to, to take care of, me!

To be continued. . .

Restoring the Breach,
Debbonnaire

A Secret Beast

Fifteen years or so ago, I started getting well. And then finding out how sick I'd really been, and getting a little more well. . . yeah. People who have spent any time in the abyss of depression or other forms of mental dis-ease will know what I mean, and what a long, arduous process it is.
Eleven years ago, I married a man who loves me. Who loves me! Who loves me! And who is nothing if not stable and steady. I tell him I embroider his life with color and excitement, and he gives me sturdy, even cloth on which to embroider.

Often we can see this as the good thing it really is.

So here I am. I get a criticism. A normal part of a normal life, if you're not spending all your energy hiding out in the cave so nobody can see you, let alone shoot at you. And what happens? Well, just at first, any normal person is hurt, a little or a lot, depending on the nature of the criticism. We all want to be perfect, please all of the people all of the time. But a healthy, mature person not only knows that's impossible, but that criticism can actually make you grow. So a healthy, mature person (and I've spent a lot of years working to become a healthy, mature person) can set aside the pangs, dig through the criticism for seeds of truth, plant those, thank the person, and go on.
Last week, in the throes, this was happening. But it was not all that was happening. I was in turmoil! In way too much pain to suit the circumstances! What, I demanded of myself, was going on? Why do I overreact so, at least sometimes?
That's when I realized there was a whole different beast involved, quite aside from the normal (momentary) human desire not to ever fail or be perceived as failing. I dug it out and looked at it, and decided there might be others who could benefit from the digging, so here we are.
To be continued. . .
Still digging, trying to find bedrock so we can restore the breach and not have it fall down again.
Debbonnaire

Tales of Woe

So there I was, a two-year-old baby, with scarlet fever, and a temp of 106.8 F, according to my mother. Who knows what brain damage that inflicted?
Explains a lot, doesn't it?
Anyway, she also says I changed completely, from a lively, active baby who never met a stranger to a quiet, shy introvert. I have no memory of this, naturally, but I do certainly remember growing up so timid I rarely spoke unless spoken to.
For those who know me, I realize this boggles the mind, but trust me - it's true!
A decade later, I began experiencing emotional trauma I don't propose to go into here. And in college, there was an episode where I suddenly started having some rather alarming physical symptoms for no discernible reason. When that passed, (and I still don't know the reason, although it has occurred to me recently that there may have been a tick bite - two-inch hard red circle, with a white center. . . Might I have had Lyme disease? Might I still have it in some form??)
What on earth does this have to do with my ability to take criticism??
Well, from that point I have had lifelong difficulties with my memory and with clumsiness. You know how people talk about "senior moments" beginning in your 40s, or even your 30s? Try 21. I began forgetting not just small things, but things of great importance, either to myself or to others, or both. Try as I might, I could not remember. I missed important appointments, failed at previously simple tasks, lost things. . .
There followed another couple decades of emotional trauma including divorce, poverty, single motherhood, and depression, just to name the major ones. People never remember or function well under extreme stress. I recall I once measured 700something on that stress scale where anything over 300 is supposed to mean you're riding for a fall.
It was somewhere in there that I wrote that journal entry I mentioned, about being flat in the mud but determined the enemy of my soul was not going to laugh over my limp body.
So the little donkey got up and took one more staggering step. . .
To be continued. . .

Restoring the Breach,
Debbonnaire

Personal Issues

WARNING! Wordy, wordy, wordy!
I debated at some length whether to post this in my blog. For one thing, I've promised myself my blog entries will all be short. For another, it's all about personal issues, and while I know most blogs are just that, I always wonder, "Does anyone find this stuff interesting besides the blogger's friends?"
Well, I have decided, shrugging philosophically, this is a new blog, and my friends are the only ones reading it! If I get rich and famous, maybe my adoring fans will want to know what it is that causes that odd tockety in my tick. And I'll just point them to my blog and say cheerfully, "Second entry - February 1, 2006. You'll learn more about me there than you ever wanted to know!"
In the past few days, I have been hit, then hit again, then knocked down, then kicked while down. I feel (just like the rest of the race, no doubt) that I have a worse time than most people getting up and going on from these disasters.This has all happened, mind you, right after that noble first post in which I advocated the virtues of courageously getting up and taking one more step toward home, like the brave little. . . ahem! . . .donkey. . .I am!
This last kick has made me think about issues which are central to the living of my life. Maybe to the living of all lives, which is another reason I decided to post, after all.
(I did warn you this was wordy, right?)
It was a painful criticism. And I just couldn't seem to stop brooding. Time and again I turned my mind to other things. I talked to friends, who comforted me. I prayed continuously. Nothing seemed to help for long. And really, I thought I had grown up enough by now to handle criticism better than that! I advocated, in my book Gardens of the Soul, the following lofty word picture of how to deal with criticism:
"Here's an idea. When someone throws rotten fruit at you, the first thing to do - as always - is to call on the Gardener. Then, together, hold your nose, put on gloves, and pick through it to see if there are any seeds of truth there. Uncomfortably often, you will find some. If you find any, plant them! Compost the rest, and it will eventually enrich you, despite the intentions of the fruit-thrower. And if there are not good seeds to be found, compost it all! Your criticizer's loss is your gain." (p. 140)
But you see, this was a criticism, rather a strong one, of something I thought I had done unexpectedly well. And this morning I finally figured out what the kernel of truth was. It has to do with a pretty major hole in myself - one I've always feared might prevent my accomplishing many of the things I hope to accomplish in life. One I don't know what to do about. One that makes me want to just go back into my cave and not bother.
And to understand it, I have to go right back to the beginnings of my life.
Wordy, wordy. . .
When I was two years old, I had scarlet fever. My temperature, according to my mother, rose as far as 106 degrees F. I thought you died with fevers like that. I do know they cause brain injury. We were quarantined. They gave me quinine. Is that the right medication? I'm probably remembering this story all wrong. And my mother says that after that things were never--

I just had the greatest idea! I can keep my blog entries short, and raise suspense levels at the same time. I'll just put to be continued. . .
Which means I'll have to tell all those future adoring fans to read February 1 ff. Well, that's all right. By then, they'll love my Way With Words, and especially with Word Pictures! Right?
More tomorrow.
Repairing the Breach,
(especially when it's in my own heart)
Debbonnaire

Labor Pains

I've decided creating a blog is a lot like having a baby. First you think about it and debate over it and plan for it and swell with it for months on end. Then you obsess over a name. Then you spend one entire day (with dial-up internet on Genuine, Certified Antique phone lines) actually trying to get the thing OUT.
PUSH!!!
Whew! Here it is - a bouncing baby blog! Isn't it cute?
I do have something to say. Really. That's what I was waiting for, all last year, as I tried to decide whether or not I was truly meant to be a Blog Mom. So here it is - got your notebooks ready?

ARE YOU A DONKEY OR A STEER?
This year my husband and I are reading an old devotional book written in 1968, and this morning's reading told a story about a donkey and a steer. Now mind you, this is a horrible story from the human perspective, and I think the "cowpunchers" should be taken out and shot. But the story does have an interesting moral.
Seems these two cowpunchers went out in the desert to chase down an errant steer. They took a little donkey with them. When they found the steer, went to all the work of lassoing him and everything, did they haul him home again?
No, they tied him to the donkey with a stout rope and went back home the easy way, riding their ponies and strumming their guitars.
Okay, it's true, I'm embellishing a little here. But really! Don't you feel sorry for this poor little donkey?
Well, about a week later, the donkey showed up at the ranch, leading a tame steer. How did she do it? Every time the steer threw her, she got up and took another step toward home. Every time the steer dragged her through the cacti, she got up and took another step toward home. Every time the steer pulled her in the opposite direction, she dug in her heels until he got tired, and then she turned around and took one more step toward home.
The devotional (which did not go into all this detail, you understand) ended this way: "With every failure, then, arise and take another step toward the kingdom, and one day you will appear at heaven's sparkling gates, battle scarred perhaps,"
(That's when I started to cry. . .)
"but serene in the security of the Master's presence."
Two pictures appeared in my mind. One was of Ready to Halt and his crippled friend, in Pilgrim's Progress, stumbling on crutches into the Blessed Land. I always did identify with them. The other was a passage in my journal during the dark years now blessedly behind me, which read something like this: "I lie face down in the mud, too sick and exhausted to rise. Yet I cannot lie here, when perhaps the finish line is six inches beyond my fingertips, and the enemy is nearby, laughing. 'Do not rejoice over me, oh my enemy. I can stand up one more time than you can knock me down.'" (The Debbonnaire Standard Version of Micah 7:8)
La question du jour, then: Are you a donkey, or a steer?
Important note: Either way, you get tamed in the end!
Restoring the Breach,
Debbonnaire

quotation from Come Unto Me, by E. E. Cleveland, Review and Herald Publishing Association, Washington, D. C.