The Reckoning Mirror

A sister shared, "I don't like who I've become." Another put it, "I feel like I lost myself somewhere between babies and retirement." And still another, "I'm so distracted I can barely hold a thought down long enough to write a sentence!" And I wonder why the epidemic? At least it seems epidemic, lately-soul ailment.

I've said it before, in the midst of pain. And I've wondered at the face I recognize in the mirror as my own when it doesn't look like what I'm feeling inside-and also when it does.

There have been times when I would have just declared myself an orphan of my own guardianship-gladly.

Is that possible?

Well, somewhere along the way I found that I'm a miserable guardian of my own soul. I am. All I have to do is look at what my actions, words, countenance reflect on bad days to know it's true.

So, it's true. Why doesn't it feel as bad as it sounds? I've wondered about this, too.

And I wonder it now because I'd like to say to these sisters, "You are wonderfully made in the image of God!"


And then I'd like to say, "So, you don't like what you see in the mirror? You're looking in the wrong mirror."


And then? I'd put a Bible in their hands and say, "See what you look like in the reflection of God's eyes."


The eyes of God are all the mirror I need. Or want. 


If I look deep and long enough to find the face of my soul reflected in the light of His eyes, then I must agree with what's there.


What's there?


A mysterious reflection, that's what. 


A resemblance of me-enough to know it's me-and an image the likes of which I only believe because it's in God's eyes.


The first time I saw it, this mysterious reflection, I wrote "Grace" on the frame of the mirror-in the margin of the scripture, "Likewise you also, reckon yourselves to be dead indeed to sin, but alive to God in Christ Jesus."


And then I wrote, "Reckon it even if it doesn't look like it."


Maybe His eyes are, to me, a reckoning mirror.



I kept reading as a woman dying to know life; and as a child born to be adopted and as an ailing soul.


I found that what I really wanted, no, needed, is a guardian who loves me more than I possibly can.


Who loves like that?


The Spirit of adoption, that's who.


"Look at Me," He says; and then He holds my eyes to the reckoning mirror, "I made My begotten Son who knew no sin to be sin for you, that you might become My righteousness in Him."


I want to look away, but He holds my eyes and continues, "You received the Spirit of adoption by whom you cry out, 'Abba, Father.'"


Well, now I don't want to look away! Still, "Hold my eyes steady on Yours, Father," because I know that if I blink, I surely will look away.


Thing is, I can't deny what His eyes witness.



Boston Ivy drapes her tresses a little thinned out, a lot colored in all dark shades of red, worn-out greens, browns and I half expect to see some gray beneath the tendrils lifted in windy toss. It's because this ivy and me, we're okay in our autumn do's. We're okay with the color changes, she with hers and me with mine all shades brown to blonde to gray because I'm a brunette who's lived in the sun long enough to be half blond and, yeah, gray too.


"Father," I tuck loose strands of hair behind my ear and feel His eyes hold my soul still.


Right now, in the slant of autumn, the only thing that matters about me is whose child I am.


I'm done being my own guardian.


Pecan leaves twirl the air yellow. They're okay, too, as they nearly spring right off the branches with no seeming regrets about the good ol' days because, guess what? The best days weren't when they were bound in green too immature to be beautiful in unbound liberty. No, the best days are the I'm free to fall because the truth about me isn't about me, days.


Well, isn't this wonderful? I think it is, because in this freedom there's true grace-the kind which is full of the life from Whom it comes. Any other grace is an empty shell.



I gather a handful of pecans. Oh, there's a tree load ready to fall.



I snip a bundle of basil and snap five more bell peppers from the plant. And there are more to come, while the ivy fades a few paces away.


I, who have suffered myself my sisters have themselves, choose to spend my time gathering pecans meaty full and calling them a testament of true grace. No excuses; no empty shells.


There are days when I don't exactly like myself, but so what? I choose to look unblinking into the reckoning mirror.


I choose to see what my Father witnesses just there.




written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig
























 

The Rock Who Skipped-revised :-)

A man skipped a rock.

It skidded across 

The surface of the pond-

Of course, it sank;

Ran out of strength.

But as the man watched,

He praised the Rock of

Ages who walked
The waves, and sought Him

For Salvation.

The Rock behaved as stone,

Sank to depths unknown,

Yet dragged my sin below-

Christ, my joy today,

Skips with joy this way.

He drowned sin's woe

In fire, hell's sulpher home.

 Praise the Lord, my soul!

I'm not drowned, but washed, whole,

And clothed in whitest robe

Of Salvation.

Sing His praises, and lift

The Rock of Ages who sifts

Our sins away and gives-

He gives! He laughs, sings,
And plays the wind's strings!


The Rock, He skips,
And the joy on His lips
Is the strength which gripped
My sin and stripped me of it
For Salvation

He's coming; the great

And awesome Name

Who reigns, unchained-

 

Death could not keep down

The King and His crown.

Oh, enter His gates,

Lay hold of His claim,
Center your praise,
Walk on the waves with the Rock,
Of Salvation.

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

Shot by the Pillsbury Dough Boy



Pigs in a blanket and applesauce. I'd wrap them Lil' Smokies in crescent roll dough straight from the cylindrical canister every now and then, and I'd wonder how these ingredients got into my shopping cart. Prob'ly by accident, on account of 'cause two accident prone little boys were in my shopping cart, too. 

The same boys who "accidentally" chewed toast into pistols and had a shoot-out across the breakfast table.

There were other "accidents" too, and many of them were blamed on the mysterious "Nobody." Once Nobody tried to swing from the shower curtain and somebody,  the likes of me, catapulted herself upstairs in hopes of catching Nobody in the act. 

I've never cared to eat the other white meat, and while I've never ground wheat in a denim skirt and combat boots, I'm flat out too health conscious to have developed much of a relationship with the Pillsbury dough boy.

Maybe that's why he shot me.

He did.

Just this evening with the metal lid to the crescent roll canister.

The lid shot off the mouth of the canister, and maybe the dough boy would  claim it was what's called an "accidental discharge," but that canister was loaded with dough, aimed at me, and I have no idea how that kind of pressure builds inside crescent roll packaging,  but I'll tell you it's a little startling to be shot in the backside bent over an oven rack while checking the Beef in a Blanket. 

Startling.

Yet graphically a tad familiar. Familiar. Is this word related to another word-family? Immediate family, extended family, brothers and sisters familiar by Christ, and the human race family? 

The lid shot off the canister, half the dough rifled with it, and I know I've seen this somewhere else before. It's startling when you get shot in the back by a trusted family member, isn't it? Isn't it startling when what's been building inside a friend or coworker, a fellow Christian or a complete stranger pops a lid, shoots off the mouth, and you get to see what comes out? 

I looked at spilt dough on counter top and, "As we think in our hearts," came the verse, "so we are." It's written somewhere in Proverbs 23. I remember because "23" rhymes with "so are we." I know, but it works.

I take a picture, and my daughter looks at me like, "Really, mom?"

Then I reach for my Bible. I want to know where the other things about what comes out of the heart are written-where it's written what just can't help but flow with the power of joy building behind it in the canister of my being. My heart, which holds what's put in it.

"He who believes in Christ, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart rivers of living water" (John7:37).

And rivers of expanding dough, I think to myself.

Thing is, if it's not something like holy joy, or kindness, or wisdom all rolled up in my heart and just waiting for the moment to flow out on the current of love, then I don't want it filling my heart. No sticky Pillsbury crescent roll dough, thank you. I don't want processed, pre-cut, packaged anything filling my heart. Just flowing river sweet water of life, please.

I know only one way for this to happen. It's called transformation by the renewing of my mind.

It's called pray without ceasing and give thanks in all things.

It's called repay no one evil for evil, but have regard for good things, family.

It's called if it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men; and isn't it also called, love your neighbor, for love is the fulfillment of the law, and maybe it's also called, let's stop thinking of ourselves as victims.

Here's a thought. There might not be any lawyers if we loved our neighbors, and if we overcame evil with good, and if we weren't so ready to avenge ourselves but really trusted God when He said "vengeance is mine, I will repay." Perhaps this is the strongest defense we have against feeling victimized. Guaranteed God's not going to go off at the mouth as many of His children who call Him Father might do. 

I pick up the canister lid from the floor, step over the dog who's licking the floor where the lid landed, and I unroll the spilt dough.

"What do I do with it, Lord?" I'm really not asking Him what to do with the dough, but, "What do I do when someone in this family called humanity is ready to explode and I'm in the line of fire?"

"Make cinnamon rolls." I don't know if that was God or subliminally prompted by the scrumptious photo a friend of mine posted the other day and wrote, "Cinnamon rolls last about five minutes in our family."

He says, "Make cinnamon rolls," and I hear, "Sugar and spice and everything nice-extend grace."

Grace. Isn't that a family trait for those who are brothers and sisters in Christ? It is. Grace is family trait.

Is it always given? I wish I could say that it was, but it's not. Yet, none of that changes the fact that grace is a family trait and I don't want to be a traitor to it.

Adopt a victim mentality, and be a traitor to grace. Seems to me that's the way it works.

So, I butter up the exploded dough, subdue the precut triangles with sprinkled cinnamon-sugar and raisins, bend over the oven rack once more and look forward to breakfast in the morning.

Coffee and a cinnamon roll on a cool fall morning. Yeah, that's what I do with what shot from the mouth of the crescent roll canister. 

I choose not to be victimized.

I choose to make cinnamon rolls.

Eat your heart out Pillsbury dough boy.

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

Giving A Fig and Mustard Seeds

"Give her the fruit of her hands," God says, "and let her own works praise her in the gate." He says it about Mrs. Proverbs 31.

The Knife

Knife Drawer

The kitchen knife, which my sister-in-law's husband forged in his garage and recently gave to me, stands in it's own handcrafted wood block and if a knife can gloat, this one does. It's sharp, well balanced, and seems to know how to handle itself so well I wonder if it even needs the likes of me.


I fit in with the crowd in the jumbled knife drawer.


The figs come quartered in a Costco-sized bag which may last till my next birthday.


I draw the regal knife, feel the handle hewn from a wood I've never heard of-Chechen wood-and maybe it looks like I'm subduing the figs beneath the blade, but I'm not. I'm subduing the knife.


It came with as many credentials as the string of initials behind a heart surgeon's name on a plaque.

Chief Kitchen Chef Knife; 15N20, alloy steel, .75% carbon, 1.92% nickel, .075% chromium, Master Degree 1550 F, Chechen

Credentials

If I had a single initial behind my name it wouldn't come from my college degree. Turns out, my college degree isn't recognized outside of New England and only as a student of the World Issues Program, at that. Turns out a degree can't be measured when the courses are pass/fail.

I passed. My GPA? It's PASS.

But did y'all know that a cup of Dannon yogurt has 510mg of potassium in it? And that 1/3 cup of figs has 310mg of potassium? That a banana has 520mg of potassium, and an orange has 174mg of potassium?

I need the potassium. I've studied potassium. I've charted potassium. If I had anything behind my name on my diploma it would say, PhD of Potassium and I'd have a real GPA.

"Alloy Steel!" I command the name like a Drill Sargent. "Carbon! Nickel! Chromium!" I intend to humble this knife to potassium in a pile of fruit.

I grip Chechen and hold the blade over the banana. The knife slices like it doesn't need me except to hold it and stand there looking pretty. It sections orange, minces figs, and just to show off, it slices a fig seed in half right there on my cutting board.

Fig Seeds

I wipe the blade clean, inspect it to see if it's forming the sought after patina, return it to it's block, toss the fruit with the Dannon, and build breakfast like that.

I've been asking God what He's building, and I ask Him again around a mouthful of potassium. I've been asking because, "Unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who build it;" He says.

I don't want to labor in vain.

"Show me what You're building, Lord;" I pop a spoonful of fig into my mouth. The seeds crunch and get stuck between my teeth and I wonder if fig seeds are as small as a mustard seed. I've never seen a mustard seed, but surely mustard seeds can't be much smaller than fig seeds. At least not much smaller than halved fig seeds.

"I build with mustard seeds," He qualifies. That's all He needs to say.

"I remember what You've said about mustard seeds, Lord." I turn to Luke 17:6 and read it to Him.

You said right here, "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you." I remember He said the same thing about moving a mountain.

"So," He prompts me to answer my own question, "what am I building?"

I chew more figs. "Authority over mountains and mulberry trees? My faith?" I know He's building these things. I see it, the faith He gives me, and I can name a mulberry tree and a mountain which have been thrown into the sea. My sin.

It's big and it's roots run deep, but my sin has nothing over faith the size of a mustard seed. Sin likes the sound of its own voice, but somehow the sound of a mustard seed cracking hull and sprouting somewhere down in the soil in my heart is louder than the sound of sin's clamor.

I scrape the last of potassium from the breakfast bowl, pass the knife on the way to the sink and think about Mrs. Proverbs 31. "Lord!" I suddenly see what He's building and how to know if I'm building the same thing. "You're building Your kingdom!" One day I'm going to thank Mrs. Proverbs 31 for showing me what it looks like to build in her home a bit of the kingdom that God is building.

About Patina



Mrs. Proverbs 31 doesn't labor in vain. She's like Chief Kitchen Chef Knife-sharp, well-balanced, able to do what she was made to do when held in her Master's hand.

She gladly is humbled to slice onion paper thin and to cut cubes of meat from a slab the size of Rhode Island.

She's been forged on an anvil at some point in her life, no doubt. How else could she be then hand polished by God Himself?

And, Mrs. Proverbs 31, as she ages and turns gray, she develops patina.

Patina, on a knife, is gray and the pattern in the patina is unique to what the knife has been used for. Patina protects the knife from rusting. Isn't that a bit of heaven on earth, not rusting?

Mrs. Proverbs 31 has real patina.

"A woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised." I hear the Lord, and He continues, "Give her the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates." Mrs. Proverbs 31 doesn't labor in vain.

I draw the knife from its block to see if its developed patina yet and, "All Your works shall praise You, Lord," comes to mind. It's not my own thought, but His from Psalm 145. God doesn't build in vain.

We look at each other a good long while, He and I.

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

Shepherd, King, Master

To my Shepherd Who leads with love,
In deepest depths and heights above;
My Shepherd never looses sight
Of where I am, day or night.

 

To my King who rules the nations,
 Tribes and tongues and populations;
 My King who comes to my defense
And does not ask for recompense.

To the Master of my being,
My every thought and every feeling;
You give me all of Your commands
But Your grace makes no demands.

Shepherd, King, my Master it's odd-
You, bought with coins but I, with blood.

Truly, I'm not worth a cent,

But hallelujah!

Your life is the measurement!

 

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

Perfumed Ointment

Isn't it enough for me,

When my precious Lord receives

Treasures I pour on His feet

As perfumed ointment?

 

Isn't it enough to give

My best exclusively for His

Sole enjoyment, then to kiss

With perfumed ointment?

 

It’s enough. That’s the answer

When I break as alabaster.

What I lavish on my Master

Is His essence.

 

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig   

 

            (inspired by preacher poet, Robert Fultz, when he posted, “Sometimes I wanna be like the alabaster box, broken and spilled out; lavished on Jesus!”)

Love Me Like This

 

You've heard me say,

"I'm going away-"

Please don't bereave

Your loss when I leave;

Open your heart

To what love imparts,

Freest treasure

In selfless measure.

I've been to you 

Life, the Way, and Truth-

Though I go home,

I won't leave you alone;

It's not pretend, 

I've promised to send-

Comfort and peace,

The Spirit in Me.

I know you yearn

For My soon return-

Be still and lend

Your heart while I spend

These precious last days

At My father's place.

I'll come; I will,

But for now, be still.

Love Me today,

I've shown you the way-

Come to the cross 

And there, count the cost.

Count what I see,

What's set before Me,

Count My joy! It's worth

More than gems on earth.

"If you loved Me, you would rejoice because I say, 'I am going to the Father.'"

-John 14:28

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig