What We Wish We Weren't

A friend of mine recently asked the question, 'What is a body?' and then proceeded to answer it in the most beautiful and poetic way imaginable. It caught my attention and I asked if I could share it with all of you, because it's a message that needs to be shared and contemplated. It rings with truth and purity; that's hard to find nowadays.

"What is a body? A literal reflection of our inner selves? A walking organ that functions based off of the whims of some unseen soul? A prison? We become so consumed with the outer appearance of a shell, of the case that protects the vibrant life that resides inside. We color it and paint it, putting on airs and dressing it up telling the world "this is me! Look at my clothes and my skin and my hair. Look at the way I walk and talk and move. This is me." Lies. This is a disguise. A clever trick of the world that allows us to present to our fellow beings exactly what we wish. But what is the point? Who are you trying to impress? They do not live inside your head, they do not spend everyday trapped within the confines of your mind, listening to the endless torrent of thoughts and emotions never ceasing, never letting you rest. We are forced to face ourselves everyday, and often we do not like what we see, because we see what is real. The true being behind the disguise. But what of the world? It cannot handle what resides behind my eyes. Luckily I need not let them see what hides inside. For I have been given a mannequin that I can dress and change to fit my whims. I can make it say what I like and do what I want while I hide within, playing a game with the outside world, waiting to see who will see the cracks in my disguise. My body has become a prison, I have trapped myself with the ideas of what I should be. But is that the function of a body? Is that it's role in the design of the world? To be a cage? I highly doubt it. Our bodies are what we present to the world, merely because we cannot show them what is inside. Therefore what we portray on our outer shell should be a reflection of the inside. Not of the pain and anger. And not of the joy and peace. But a mixture of both. Only then will we be fair to ourselves and say to the world "this is me. Broken and fragile. Sin filled and prideful. But still beautiful." It's time to turn this prison into a home, to build and fix it because it is our residence, to love it because it is a gift, a dwelling to house who we really are, even if only for a short time. It's time to set the captive free and stop hiding away in fear of what we wish we weren't." ~ Caresse N. Hassoldt

Challenge yourself today, dear Reader, wherever you are and whatever your story may be to discover, What is your body? Is it your prison? Complicated machinery? What are you doing with it? Is it meant to impress, is it meant to hide? How can you set yourself free and live the full life? 

 "It's time to set the captive free and stop hiding away in fear of what we wish we weren't."

The Jigsaw People of this Puzzle World

Life is a puzzle and we are all jigsaw pieces, trying to make something of the world.

Each of us have our own little life-puzzle that we have to fit together every day. A child's is simple and has fewer pieces to deal with. It makes more sense to put together because there is a surplus of youthful innocence and eagerness to work with the few pieces they have.  The colors are bright, the picture is appealing, the edges are smooth and straight, and they enjoy everything about them in their little puzzle world.

But as we get older and begin to have more doubts and loves and fears, responsibilities, chaos, and joy, the picture starts to change. What was once clear and defined becomes more confusing, since it has a lot more pieces that need a place, and the edges are rough; there are no more straight lines.  The colors darken with our deeper understanding of a messed up, scary world, and the picture no longer makes any sense. No matter how you tilt your head, you can't see what the picture is, but you still have to add pieces and pieces to the jumbled pile, hoping that something beautiful will turn out.

As we struggle valiantly to make sense of it all, little do we realize that right next door, or across the street, there's another person with a puzzle of their own.  Everywhere you look, each person has a life that needs to be sorted out, put together, and built up, one piece at a time.  Some of us have lives that are bright and cheery, the colors on the jigsaw tiles are bold and beautiful, even tough there's still not a complete picture. Others are shunned because of their puzzle.  Their puzzle-life is so dark and obscure that they feel that their whole world is an abyss without a trace of color, no picture, no beauty, no light, love, or passion. Their's is a puzzle far darker than yours, and the edges are rougher than a jagged cliff where it seems that no beauty can ever penetrate.

But what if we were to put all the pieces together?  All the pieces from everyone's puzzle, could we combine our rough edges with a smooth one, and connect them so that they all fit?  The world is made up of individuals, with individual stories or puzzles. But in reality, if you step back and let it all shrink into proportion, we are all one piece of a greater picture. Each piece in our story that seems so huge or monumental is a tiny drop of color in one sea of paint.

When we combine our puzzles with someone else's, we see the formation of a picture, more clear and interesting than our isolated one. The colors blend and the chaos doesn't seem so glaring. As more and more individuals come together all the bleak pasts and hopeful futures merge into a larger, brighter story. There are dark spots, but they line up and blend beautifully with another colorful life.  The woman down the street who was abused, with dark, ugly colors in her puzzle, found a woman with gentle hands to help her, whose own puzzle has a dark streak, but learned to find the color in the world.

We need each other, we humans. Life would look so drab and impossible without them. Of course, some people can't fit together like others. It will take a lifetime of rearranging, turning, and moving to find a place where we fit beautifully with another soul. That's what families are meant for; even in the searching and scrambling to fit in, there should always be a place to call home and know that you belong.

And we all belong. No piece is not meant to fit in the puzzle of life. Jigsaw tiles will forever be added to the edges, increasing the size and picture. The old ones will fade and lose their color over time, but they're no less important after they are dead, because they're still part of the bigger picture. While we are living, breathing, jigsaw tiles, we should never give up or give in, because just when all things seem utterly desperate and impossible, we'll be ushered into a place where we fit with other souls who know our pain, with souls who can heal and help us, and other jigsaw pieces that fill our empty spots. We are never useless, because if we live the full life, we'll find that even though we need help, we help others too, because no jigsaw in this life is cut with all holes, but with circles or squares to fill another person up.

Life is a puzzle, a mystery, and an awful mess sometimes, but we are the pieces that make a great picture. We're the jigsaw people of this puzzle world, and we create a story of passion, beauty, sorrow, and ultimately, the greatest picture that this world can know.  We fit together, despite our wounds, despite our colors, despite our differences to paint the perfect picture of the Maker's love. We see it on a small scale when we step back and enjoy the view, but every day, every circumstance adds another piece to our lives and another's until the end of time when we will finally have a bird's eye view of the place we called home. The puzzle will be completed and we'll take a sigh and shed a few tears; all the work, good and bad, has led to the moment when we are enveloped, wholly and holy in the love of the Maker, who created the ultimate picture, who hand made every piece, and even when we kicked and screamed, pushed us into the places we best belong.

How Deep the Father's Love For Us

This is an Easter post that I wrote a couple years ago and read at our church service. I don't remember how I got the inspiration, but I have always liked the idea of supernatural warfare. I pray that you remember this morning how much He loves you, and how deep His love will go. Happy Easter, and He Is Risen! 

How Deep the Father’s Love For Us

Janelle Spiers

March 2013

Icouldn’t look.  I had to turn my face, because I knew if I saw him, I would move.  If I moved, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself, for I would have given into the temptation that tortured me.  If I had given into temptation, I would have ruined the plan, the plan that would bring salvation to the world.

            I didn’t think it could go like this.  I was sure something had gone wrong.  How could God intend this to happen?  But he didn’t give the word.  He didn’t unleash the angelic army waiting by his side to rescue the suffering Prince.  He just watched.

            I felt that I should have done something.  My Prince was down there, suffering for all humanity, but I couldn’t go.  I was obeying the High King of Kings, the Emperor of All, and so I did nothing.  But when I heard the cry of pain that escaped his lips, betraying the utter agony and torment he endured, it made me angry.

            I had been sorry to see him leave.  Thirty-three years before that cruel day he had entered the world called Earth.  I was overjoyed when I welcomed him, singing, “Glory in the highest, Peace on Earth, Goodwill towards men.”  I watched him carefully as my Lord was trapped inside the little body of a human child.  I watched him longingly as he grew, waiting for him to become a man.   I cringed when he was scorned and mocked, and I smiled when he was accepted and loved.                    

             They had come for him in the night.  The soldiers had arrested him, giving him a trial while the sky was dark, because they were cowards.  They couldn’t face a crowd that might have saved my Prince the pain he was enduring.  They found a guiltless man guilty, though they themselves were guilty of breaking the laws ordained by God.  The darkness hid more than the sun, it hid the demons lurking, back and forth, pacing the room where they testified against him, jumping gleefully when they led him away to the governor’s house, and darting quickly through the gathering crowd.

             I was furious that they treated him so.  I fingered my sword, but stopped, knowing that if my Prince wouldn’t fight back, neither would I.  I knew that my Lord could see the beings; he could see their beautiful faces, their scarlet robes, and their shining wings.  I knew he could see us, too.  Our beautiful faces, our jade robes, and our shining wings, but our faces had a different expression.  Instead of happiness, scorn, and mockery, there was pain, determination, and anxiety. 

            We were anxious to go, anxious to do something as he stood silently before the man called Pilate.  Why wasn’t God doing anything to save his son?  Was he not paying attention to what was happening on the earth he had created?  I had glanced at him, during our long vigil that night, breaking into the terrible day.  He sat high on his throne and he watched.  He was fully aware of what was taking place, but he did nothing.

            Then they took him to a courtyard where blood from human men was spattered across the walls.  And then, as they flogged him with a cruel, heavy whip, human blood flew, but it was mixed with something greater, far more powerful than the life source for humans.  It was the blood of Jesus. 

            He was brought out and placed along side a murderer and the crowd chanted.  The demons shouted with them, whispering to the undecided, changing the minds of the ones who had called him their king days before.  And the cold-blooded killer was released, set loose to continue his gory deeds.  And they took the guiltless man, at the crowds affirmations, to be crucified.

            I wanted to scream when they drove a crude circlet of heavy thorns into his head.  Blood streamed down his face and I wept to see my Prince treated like a criminal, when he had done nothing but good.  They gave him a purple robe, and hailed him as their king, but the empty lies they taunted him with were their own demise.  They hit the King of the Universe and laughed.  But the King of the Universe said nothing.  Though he knew that all of heaven would have swept down and stopped the unbearable pain, he said nothing.  He endured it.

            And so they led him to the hill stained with the blood of sinful men.  But as they nailed him to the splintered, rough wood and placed him upright for all to see, innocent, pure blood poured from his body onto the accursed ground. 

            And so I stood in heaven in our battle lines, waiting..but he never called us.  When the sun was at its highest, God blotted it out.  He took hold of the corners of the earth and shook it, calling the people of the world to their knees, but though they fell, few fell to repent.

            And then the hardest part of all came.  After six hours of bleeding, suffering, and suffocating, God closed the curtain of Heaven to its Prince.  The curtain fell, forsaking the dying man on the cross.  He cried out in a loud voice, but we could hear nothing.  The demons screamed with laughter as the Father abandoned his Son. The sins of the world had fallen onto the Prince, and the King turned his back.  But as he gave up his spirit, the curtain tore. 

            The curtain between God and Earth was ripped like the skin on my Lord’s back, and the curtain in the temple separating Earth from God was cut in two.  Jesus Christ took on the sins of the world, and flung them as far as the east is from the west. 

            For three days the demons celebrated their triumph.  They laughed and screamed with glee, for they thought their battle was won.  But on the third day, the earth shuddered, the universe groaned, and the heavens shook.  For out of the earth where they laid him, my Prince came out. 

            He was no longer confined to the body of a man.  My Lord was himself, the God of Heaven, the God of Earth, and the God of Life.  The demons shrieked and fled in terror as Jesus proved to the world, that no power, not even death, could defeat the Son of God.

            I watched with joy as my Prince appeared to his friends and followers, because I finally understood.  It had been so hard for God to watch his Son suffer, but it was his plan.  His humans were sinful and they needed a savior, so Jesus paid the price.  He gave up his life as a ransom for many.

            The sacrifice was immeasurable, the pain was unimaginable, the separation was unfathomable, but the results were unsurpassable.  The Prince loved his people so much; he was willing to take up their sin, and to carry it.  He carried the weight of the world upon his shoulder, and as it was washed by his perfect blood, it dissolved like snow.

How deep the Father's love for us,

How vast beyond all measure

That He should give His only Son

To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss,

The Father turns His face away

As wounds which mar the chosen One,

Bring many sons to glory

Behold the Man upon a cross,

My sin upon His shoulders

Ashamed I hear my mocking voice,

Call out among the scoffers

It was my sin that left Him there

Until it was accomplished

His dying breath has brought me life

I know that it is finished

I will not boast in anything

No gifts, no power, no wisdom

But I will boast in Jesus Christ

His death and resurrection

Why should I gain from His reward?

I cannot give an answer

But this I know with all my heart

His wounds have paid my ransom

A Ship

A Ship

Original Poem by Janelle Spiers

A ship is a rollicking, wild phantom,

Soaring across the waving seas.

A ship is a wild, flying bird

To take us where we please.

The ship is a carpet of fairy dust,

Magic and wholly untrue.

Sweet ships are a kiss upon the lips

As they bring me home to you.

Where are the sails and briny oars?

Show me the rigging and sandy shores --

Dip me a flagon of ocean chill

And the rolling waves that can't keep still.

Hand me adventure and splintered wood

And all that's wet, and salty, and good.

A ship is a conquistador of old,

Driving heavily through the rain.

A ship is a princess who catches my eye

And carries away all of my pain.

The ship is a secret treasure,

Buried beneath the yards of sail.

The ship is Lord of the Sea,

King of fish and mighty whale.

Where is the creak of rolling madness?

Show me the sails of departing sadness --

Dip me a flagon of salty sea,

And the rolling waves that call to me.

Hand me freedom and coiled ropes

And all that's bright with salty hopes.

Sorting Shattered Fragments

Yesterday, on January 12, five years ago, a huge earthquake rocked the country of Haiti at a 7.0 on the Richter scale.  By January 24, at least 52 aftershocks were recorded, at 4.5 or greater.  Three million people were estimated to be affected by the devastation, and numbers ranged from 100,000 to 220,000 in death toll. The horrific catastrophe left many people homeless, hungry, wounded, orphaned, widowed, or childless.


The earthquake struck when I was ten, and my young heart was touched by the heavy weight of death and sorrow in Haiti. I wrote a short story about the quake and though it is simple and little, the message touched many who read it at the time.

The Story of a Tear ~ Janelle Spiers

          I am a tear.  I am a tear welling up in the eye of a girl.  She has just gotten word that a loved one is in Haiti.  In Haiti, a terrible earthquake has destroyed everything.

         I will now begin my journey; it is a journey of sorrow and a journey of hope.  As I trickle down her cheek she leans over to say a prayer, and I fall into Yellowstone Lake.

         When I fall into the water, I start to sparkle out among the fern.  All around me I can see beauty and the evidence of a living God. I think about these things as I make my way out of the lake and into the river.

         Days later I reach Yellowstone River.  I’m in Montana, which is the name of a popular hotel in Haiti, where many people were trapped.  God knows each one by name, and He has not forgotten them.

         I go through lake Sakakawea, the Missouri river, through lake Oahe and back into the Missouri.  I head into Kansas City and join the big, roaring Mississippi river. The roar causes me to think of the people crying out in pain.  I shudder at the thought.  So many people died.  So many loved ones lost - so much agony, suffering, and pain. How can they go on unless they have hope – hope in the One who can turn ashes into beauty.  I share their sorrow, and like them I must go on.   

I sail down the Mississippi River all the way down to New Orleans.  Suddenly, I think about hurricane Katrina, which devastated this city just five years ago.  How terrible it was!  I realize that the people here are moving beyond their grief and on with life.  They’re rebuilding their lives and regaining hope! 

I make a sudden sally through the delta and I chatter as I flow right into the Gulf of Mexico! But my journey doesn’t end here.  I make my way toward Haiti to share my grief but also my hopes; hopes for the people too not only survive but to thrive.        

            

            So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.

            I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous

            Right hand.

                                                            Isaiah 41:10

Years later, when I read over my simple thoughts and hurting heart, I remember.  I remember the people of Haiti, those who lived there, those who died there, and those that live there now.  I remember the fear and pain that must have come for those who lost everything; think of it, they lost everything.  

But even in that place of nothingness, even in the times of hopelessness and suffering, we can still sort through the shattered fragments of our broken lives and try to pick up the pieces.  If they stay prostrate on the ground, there is no chance to rebuild.  But if we have the strength and courage to pick up the crumbling chunks, gather the loosed ends, and tie them ramshackle back together, there is hope to rebuild. 

Let's sort through broken pieces

And stumble thick in dust. 

Rake the dirt with fingers

Through, soil, death and rust.

Keep on searching, loved one.

Never give up hope

The thinest thread is one that binds

The pieces into rope.

Sort through shattered fragments

Comb through dirt and pain

Gather all the silver shards

That glitter like the rain.

Glue them back together

With the bonding kiss of hope

Sort through shattered pieces

Bind them as a rope. 

...Let's sort through broken pieces...