I took a deep breath, the wind gently brushing by my face. The seagulls were on the Jackie O reserve, just floating lazily by. There was a sparrow taking a bath in a puddle left by the rain storm; he looked so happy to just be a sparrow and be taking a bath. As I stopped running to take this all in, I realized, for the first time in I don't know how long, that I was free. I didn't have to hurry home to study for a test or write a paper; I didn't have to have the constant stress of study study study on me. This is a path that I have chosen, and I wouldn't have done anything else. But this has been a very hard, yet very very good, last year and a half. I am a nurse now; I can hardly believe it. I just finished my first summer of NP classes and will graduate Feb. 2011. I am ready to have the time, emotionally, mentally, physically, to call back friends that I haven't talked to in ages. I am ready to take a book and spend an afternoon reading in the shade of a big oak tree in Central Park. I am ready to work on an oil painting, learn the cello again, go dancing, volunteer at my church, and just be. I am ready to not have a headache every day. I am ready to maybe let my shoulders unclench, even if it is just a little. In all of this, in everything that has happened, the last few months have been the hardest. I feel as though I have become the worst version of myself, and I don't like that. I don't like feeling like I want to yell at someone just because they are walking slowly in front of me. I hate the fact that when I get as stressed, emotionally and mentally, as I have been these past few months, my swearing quotient goes up. That is just silly, and it is not me. I am ready to not be so emotionally labile and get a grip for goodness sakes! I am ready to not cry about something as insignificant as spilling a glass of water. I mean, honestly! This month will probably go fast, as everything does, but I am praying that for me and my schoolmates, who desperately need this reprieve, that it stretches on interminably, to the point that we start wanting something to do again.
I am so ready to get back to being me, and not feeling like an alien walking around in my body. This has been a difficult summer, but when I think of all we've accomplished, I am in awe. God has been faithful, and has given me the grace and strength I've needed for each trial that has come my way, and I am so incredibly incredibly thankful. Now, it is time to relax. To regenerate. To remember who I am and what I stand for and to be built back up, from the inside out. It doesn't seem real yet; the prospect of some test hangs over my head and I have to keep reminding myself that I don't need to study today, or tomorrow, or the next day. I can step outside, take in the beauty of the sun and the clouds, and be in awe, yet again, of God's handiwork. I can just be. And for the time being, that sounds like bliss to me.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Hands
Got this from a friend:
"Hands" by Dr. Ray Pritchard
“Jesus called out with a loud voice, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’ When he had said this, he breathed his last” (Luke 23:46).
Luke is the only writer to record the final words of the Son of God. Every word tells us something important:
Father—This was Jesus’ favorite title for God. It spoke of the intimate family relationship that had existed from all eternity. His first word from the cross had been, ”Father, forgive them.” His last word was, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” But in between he had cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He called him, “My God” and not “Father” because in that agonizing moment, the Father turned his back on the Son as Jesus bore the sin of the world. God forsaken by God! But no longer. Jesus dies with the knowledge that the price has been fully paid, the cup emptied, the burden borne, estrangement ended, the battle won, the struggle over. Whatever happened in those three mysterious hours of darkness is now in the past. Jesus yields his life to the One he called “Father.”
Into your hands—Oh, the touch of a father’s hands. What son does not long for his father to reach out and embrace him? There is something wonderful about this expression. It speaks of safety—"I am safe in my father’s hands”—and of greeting—"Welcome home, Son”—and of love—"Dad, it’s so good to see you again”—and of approval—"I’m so proud of you, Son.”
For 15 hours Jesus has been in the hands of wicked men. With their hands, they beat him. With their hands, they slapped him. With their hands, they abused him. With their hands, they crowned him with thorns. With their hands, they ripped out his beard. With their hands, they smashed him black and blue. With their hands, they whipped his back until it was torn to bits. All that is behind him now. Wicked hands have done all they can do. Jesus now returns to his Father’s hands.
I commit—The word means to deposit something valuable in a safe place. It’s what you do when you take your will and your most valuable possessions and put them in a safe-deposit box at the bank.
My spirit—By this phrase, Jesus meant his very life, his personal existence. Now that his physical life was over, Jesus commits himself into his Father’s hands for safe keeping. “Father, I can no longer care for myself. I place myself in your good hands for safe-keeping.”
Matthew 27:50 tells us that at the moment of his death, Jesus “dismissed his spirit.” That is, he voluntarily yielded it up to the Father. His life was not taken from him against his will; when the time came, he gave up his life voluntarily.
The death of Christ is not the final act of a tragedy but the victorious ending of a mighty battle.
On this Good Friday, an apt name for a day that began in the darkness of the night and ended with the Son of God giving up his life for sinners, let us give thanks for Jesus’ death. Not just that he died but for his death itself. And may these words translated by James Alexander in 1830 from an old Latin poem attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux serve as a fitting benediction:
What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine forever, and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to Thee.
"Hands" by Dr. Ray Pritchard
“Jesus called out with a loud voice, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’ When he had said this, he breathed his last” (Luke 23:46).
Luke is the only writer to record the final words of the Son of God. Every word tells us something important:
Father—This was Jesus’ favorite title for God. It spoke of the intimate family relationship that had existed from all eternity. His first word from the cross had been, ”Father, forgive them.” His last word was, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” But in between he had cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He called him, “My God” and not “Father” because in that agonizing moment, the Father turned his back on the Son as Jesus bore the sin of the world. God forsaken by God! But no longer. Jesus dies with the knowledge that the price has been fully paid, the cup emptied, the burden borne, estrangement ended, the battle won, the struggle over. Whatever happened in those three mysterious hours of darkness is now in the past. Jesus yields his life to the One he called “Father.”
Into your hands—Oh, the touch of a father’s hands. What son does not long for his father to reach out and embrace him? There is something wonderful about this expression. It speaks of safety—"I am safe in my father’s hands”—and of greeting—"Welcome home, Son”—and of love—"Dad, it’s so good to see you again”—and of approval—"I’m so proud of you, Son.”
For 15 hours Jesus has been in the hands of wicked men. With their hands, they beat him. With their hands, they slapped him. With their hands, they abused him. With their hands, they crowned him with thorns. With their hands, they ripped out his beard. With their hands, they smashed him black and blue. With their hands, they whipped his back until it was torn to bits. All that is behind him now. Wicked hands have done all they can do. Jesus now returns to his Father’s hands.
I commit—The word means to deposit something valuable in a safe place. It’s what you do when you take your will and your most valuable possessions and put them in a safe-deposit box at the bank.
My spirit—By this phrase, Jesus meant his very life, his personal existence. Now that his physical life was over, Jesus commits himself into his Father’s hands for safe keeping. “Father, I can no longer care for myself. I place myself in your good hands for safe-keeping.”
Matthew 27:50 tells us that at the moment of his death, Jesus “dismissed his spirit.” That is, he voluntarily yielded it up to the Father. His life was not taken from him against his will; when the time came, he gave up his life voluntarily.
The death of Christ is not the final act of a tragedy but the victorious ending of a mighty battle.
On this Good Friday, an apt name for a day that began in the darkness of the night and ended with the Son of God giving up his life for sinners, let us give thanks for Jesus’ death. Not just that he died but for his death itself. And may these words translated by James Alexander in 1830 from an old Latin poem attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux serve as a fitting benediction:
What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine forever, and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to Thee.
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