A Dream

Over a month ago, I had the most beautiful dream of my life. I've been re-telling it to myself the last few weeks before sleep--wrapping myself in its warmth and security. Tonight, it was more difficult to recapture; my memory fades much too rapidly. I must save it here.

I was at home with John and the doorbell rang. On the doorstep, I found a stranger. A well dressed stranger who made it immediately evident he was on official business. My first impression was that he must be from the IRS or census bureau; he wore a grey suit and thick glasses. I could not see his eyes. I invited him in and he sat down on our couch and opened a laptop and briefcase. My dreaming self was perfectly at ease even though this visit was unexpected. Then he began to ask us questions about our daughter. I thought, "Oh, he is not from the government after all. He is a social worker." I was a little perturbed that we had not been notified of a home visit, but again, I had nothing to hide from this man in any case. His questions revealed intimate knowledge of our daughter's birth history and he would not accept vague or elusive answers. Who was this guy, anyway? Finally, he asked me if I had her eyes checked. I blushed with shame.

The day we were released from the NICU, I was told that preemies needed to have their vision screening repeated at four months. Though I remembered to ask my pediatrician about it later, we had never followed through with the test. He did not seem to think it was important and with all of her other medical needs, I wasn't itching to take on more appointments with a pediatric optamologist. Now well over a year old, she's never given indication that her vision is anything less than perfect.

In my dream, I opened my mouth to give these very good excuses, but they stuck in my throat. I could not put this man off. The stranger seemed to sense my discomfort and embarrassment. He began to talk about how important our daughter was and how vital it was for us to care for her--to the smallest detail. She was a gift and we were responsible for her. Yet, he was not angry or annoyed with us. His voice was kind and patient, and I thought, "This man is no stranger. He loves her very much. He loves me very much." Still not certain of the stranger's identity, I felt sure of that fact. I wanted to assure him that we were taking good care of her, that we loved her dearly, but then it suddenly struck me, "He already knows my heart." With growing awareness, I glanced at John, and then I knew.
I fell at His feet. I think John did too, but I can't say for sure, because after that moment, I was not aware of anything or anyone but Him. I remained prostrate on the floor, but I was not afraid. I only felt love--but a love that I've never known before. A complete love--not emanating from my heart alone, but every fiber of my being--whole adoration. As though each cell in my body clamored to praise this Man. And even though this was a new sensation for me, it felt right, like coming home after a long journey.

There wasn't any more to the dream. I awoke and instantly felt a sense of loss, but I was excited, too. I dreamed about meeting with Jesus! I told John and K about my dream. John wanted me to call for an eye doctor appointment that day. While I will definitely schedule the test at her next check-up, that isn't what I took away from the dream.

You know the story of Mary and Martha? Well, I've always secretly sympathized with Martha. I could completely see her point and considered Mary something of a slacker. I've listened to many good sermons and Sunday school lessons and I've tried to internalize His rebuke, and afterwards found myself still wondering, "Yes, but dinner had to be put on the table, didn't it?" However, I'm not a Martha now. I'm a Mary. After that dream, I cannot imagine doing anything--least of all slaving in the kitchen--when the opportunity to sit at Jesus's feet was before me. How could you be anywhere else? What could Martha have been thinking? Mary wasn't avoiding her duty. I now believe she was oblivious to the sounds, sights, and smells from the kitchen. Her senses were filled with Jesus, and He is far and away the "better part."

Rust

James 3:8-No one can tame the tongue; it is a restless evil and full of deadly poison. With it we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in the likeness of God; from the same mouth come both blessing and cursing. My brethren, these things ought not be this way. Does a fountain send out from the same source both fresh and bitter water?

Or from the Spanish (disclaimer, this is LOOSELY translated from the Spanish New King James by me, who is neither a Spanish language expert, or Bible scholar):

No one controls the tongue (literally, 'no one brings it into submission'). It is a type of evil that is never satisfied or content to let be. It has all the poison it can hold. With the tongue we bless (most literally, 'make speeches') to our Lord, and we also curse men, those who bear His likeness. This isn't right! Do you get salt and fresh water from the same source?

Yes, I realize that this is the verse I posted on earlier, but sisters, there is SO MUCH there that I need to learn. I'd say I could camp out here for another three, four, or say, 20 posts, and not have plumbed its depths.

I happened to be wrapping up this study at the kitchen table at the same time the master [those of you who do not normally ready my every day blog, "the master," (little 'm') is my blog name for hubby]was studying for his Sunday sermon on the computer. Priscilla closes the study with this question:

Discuss what the uses of poison reveal about the danger of an undisciplined tongue. How does it feel to know you have used your tongue as an instrument of poison?

I began to ponder how poison works on the body. Perhaps it is my ADHD tendencies coming out, but I found my mind wandering, "What does poison do, exactly? How does it work?" Besides knowing that poison is bad--it can kill you--I had little for my brain to work with. Thankfully, I've had few brushes with poison. I asked the master to google 'poison in the body,' and he obliged. He read about poison attacking the nervous system, damaging the heart, spreading infection in the blood stream, and without immediate medical care, leading to sudden and certain death.

Surely, nothing that came from my mouth could be included in this category. My words--even the "undisciplined" ones--aren't that insidious. Ha, ha, Mrs. Shirer, you can color me off the hook!

The master: Of course, this website is dealing with snake poison...
Me: Mmm Hmm? distracted because I'm looking ahead to day 2; nothing more for me to learn here after all
The master: Well, what kind of poison is the verse talking about? -pause- not hearing him because I'm translating day 2 Jess! What verse are you in?
Me:Oh! It was James 8:3
The master: Let's look it up on Blue Letter Bible. Few things in life give him more pleasure than Blue Letter Bible. The Greek word used there for 'poison' can mean the poison of asps....ugh, yeah, we covered that...the poison of animals...right, o.k. Got it. Moving right along...and rust.

Hold the phone! Rust? No, it can't be! The steady drips of sarcasm, the tiny overflows of anger, the small seepage of derision--those couldn't possibly count? And in that moment, the Holy Spirit revealed the sin of my mouth, my spirit, my heart (for out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks). My "colorful verbiage," my "telling it like it is," my "extensive vocabulary," are qualities I actually pride myself in. But so often they are nothing more than bitter waters flowing out and corroding those around me.

And where does this acidic fount pool? Why, on the people I love most! I wouldn't spread that kind of sewage around in public! Nothing so speedily deadly as a snake bite, true, but slowly and surely, my undisciplined words are eating away at my children and my husband--like rust. And to answer your question, Priscilla, it feels lousy to be an instrument of rust.

Seal them up, Lord, those leaks. I don't want them. I repent of using my mouth to destroy my family, bit by little bit. Wash me from the inside and renew a right spirit within me. Amen.

Tongue Safety

James 3:8-No one can tame the tongue; it is a restless evil and full of deadly poison.

Proverbs 12:18-Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.

I grew up with guns in the house. My dad, an avid outdoorsman and gun enthusiast, kept a collection of all types of firearms. The oldest in the collection--passed down to him by my grandfather--were kept in the gun cabinet. Other guns were kept under his bed in cases, stacked in closets, laid to rest on dressers and hutches. He had small zippered travel holsters for pistols, and long hard cases for buck rifles and shotguns. None of them were locked.

They didn't have to be. While you may look aghast at this seemingly irresponsible negligence on the part of my parents, my sisters and I were perfectly safe. So schooled were we--from the time we were mere infants--to regard guns with the utmost of respect, we would not have approached even the area where the weapons were without cautious reverence. We knew what they were, what they would do, the permanence of the repercussions, the finality of the results. With guns there was never a "do-over." As a teen, I learned that--with the exception of two revolvers Dad kept on top of mom's wardrobe with the handles pointed out--none of the guns were loaded. But this tidbit of information was superfluous, because I had been brought up to believe that, "every gun is a loaded gun," and to treat them as such.

My heavenly Father created me with my own personal deadly weapon: my tongue. But He didn't leave me to my own devices, He's given me very precise instructions for its use. In His word He's warned me over and over again about its power, its lethal capabilities, its unreliability, its tendency to misfire. But unlike Daddy's gun safety education, I've not taken those warnings to heart. As a child, I would not have dared to retrieve an item from a closet shelf without first carefully examining the spot--standing on a chair if necessary--gingerly running my fingers over the location, and calling to double-check that the area in question was a de-militarized zone. Yet, as a grown adult, I'll shoot my mouth off in the most haphazard way. I take no precautions, exercise no patience or reserve, and forget to ask my Father's permission. I wield the world's most deadly weapon entirely unthinking and, frankly, unconcerned of the havoc I leave in my path. Sisters, "these things ought not to be." Starting now, I commit to ask the Holy Spirit's help in following some basic "tongue safety."

1) Treat every word as a loaded word. (Amen! Isn't it though?!)
2) Be as vigilant, careful, even reticent with the use of my tongue as I would be if approaching a venomous snake, a ravenous beast, an uncontrolled fire, or a deadly weapon. After all, that is exactly what the Lord tells me it is.
3)Never be deceived that you have your weapon unloaded and the safety on. That you are in control. You can't control the tongue! Instead, yield your weapon--every day, every hour, every minute--to the Weapon Maker, the Safety Instructor, the Expert Marksman.
4)Remember, just like with guns, there are no "do-overs." Once said, you can't call those words back. They've been discharged, and you will give an account for their intent, aim, target, and carnage.