The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

I'm a social media fan. I love the connection that it provides, the ability to stay in touch, at some level, with just a few keystrokes and mouse clicks. Post a picture or share a link and hear from friends of friends. Old friends from childhood and college have a window into each other's lives through which they see current joy, smiles and tears. Folks who thrive on connection can make great tools of Twitter, Facebook, blogs and Google+.  

Just like every other area of life, I can look at others and judge them on their Facebook posts. Or lack of same. That teenage girl's pictures are way too suggestive. The guy who never posts anything but only observes is a voyeur. My personal filter affects everything I think or do.

Some folks avoid social media because of privacy concerns. The current Facebook Timeline has gotten lots of comments, positive and negative. It seems that anything you or your "friends" have ever posted is tied into that Timeline. Yes, even the embarrassing things and the lousy photos where you were tagged. "I can't believe how bad my hair looked!" or "Why does he have that smug look on his face?" It's all there, the good, the bad and the ugly. 

I love to have the good posted.  

I would like to delete the bad and the ugly.

However, as Timeline so rudely points out, there is a lot to one's life.

The Scriptures tell us that one day everything will be laid bare, exposed for what it truly is. Even if I never Tweet and manage to avoid being captured through the lens of someone's Friend, every moment of my life is on record, every happy or desperate  thought in the middle of the night, and the true intent of my heart when I present a smile on Sunday morning. It will all be subject to judgment by two standards. One is the standard by which I have judged others. (Ouch!) The other is the standard of the Blood. That Blood is a standard of love, and I take comfort in that, but that love cost so much more than I can comprehend.

It's So Obvious In the Morning

In our kitchen we have two tiny windows, one on either side of the stove. We had to special-order them, not because we absolutely loved their uniqueness but because I wanted cross-ventilation and the available space was very small. So hubby, to please wife, spent more money on these ten inch square panes that he did on the huge window over the sink. We were both pleased with the result, especially on the cool days when I can slide them open and enjoy the benefit we had in mind seventeen years ago.

What I did not anticipate was the brilliance of morning light that pours through these tiny openings most mornings. I keep a cut-glass vase on one window sill and it reflects the single sunbeam in so many directions it can be blinding. But the biggest surprise is the mess on the counters. Not mess from the light, but mess that the light exposes. How can that be there? I know I cleaned it last night. Or Ray did. Or one of the kids who cooked late in the evening. We do that. We wash the dishes and wipe down the stove and counters. Did someone come in and rub grease is circles on the counter top or sprinkle just a bit of salt by the back splash? If I'm going to have fairies visit, could they not clean up instead of mess up?

The problem is that we clean up in relative darkness. Sure, the overhead light is on, but that's not the same as the morning beams. I'm tired at the end of the day, more tired after preparing the meal and doing the dishes, and the efforts to clean the counters are routine. But in the morning beams every crevice is illuminated. The angle of the sunlight's entry lights up even dust particles. It's all right there out in the open.

So now I have a choice. Go back and clean more effectively with the benefit of this divinely placed light or turn my back to it so that it doesn't bother me and by midday I will forget it is even there.

Just Keep Your Feet Moving

I stepped back in time last week.

The feeling was familiar as I opened the door to a different room that contained memories and fears and encouragement and hope. A small group of ladies meets twice a week in an unmarked room upstairs in our church. They pray and encourage and motivate and commiserate. My 12-stepper friends think you know where I was last week, but I doubt it.

This little band of mighty warriors goes by the name Firm Believers. I suspect I could survey 500 people entering our church Sunday morning and not find one who knows of this ministry that reaches women at a point of need and stretches them toward health, strength and submission of the body to its Maker, all to the beat of contemporary worship music.

It's not a new ministry. I don't know when Firm Believers first organized but it was through their door that I was introduced to Idlewild 23 years ago. My neighbor Sallie invited me to join her in working off the remainder of our pregnancy weight gain after the birth of our boys.

I stayed on the back row then, as I've done the last two weeks. The rhythm gene was deleted from my DNA at least several generations ago. I never learned to dance and even when you call it choreography, I have to plead ignorance. It was embarrassing 23 years ago. Not that anyone made fun of me. They just told me to keep my feet moving. The told me not to worry about the disparity between my movements and the movement I was seeing on the front row. Just keep my feet moving.

My memory cannot recall how long I stuck with it all those years ago, but I suspect not long, because my own internal level of discomfort probably made me run and hide. But no longer. I still stick out like a sore thumb but I know that's okay. I'll get better with time. I may never have the grace and mid-life beauty of the women on the front row but that's okay. I'll keep my feet moving. And someday I might just stay in rhythm for a whole one song! My body will be stronger. The scale will be happier. My soul will be richer for the trust built in this community of Firm Believers.

And I'll keep my feet moving.