Best line on tonight’s American Idol was delivered by a guy named Clifton, who works at a bank.
The people I work with are great and everything. They crack me up. It feels like I’m on a reality show.
Yeah. I know what he means. I think I’m on the same show… just a different location.
| You Are Elektra |
 There’s really no superhero with more style than you. Because who could beat being a sexy assasin ninja? |
This was just way too cool. I discovered this by accident on YouTube, and just fell on the floor laughing. This is hilarious!!! The BEST gag reel I’ve seen in a long time. And it all made me feel like I was back home in LA, working in television again and getting to see the gag reel at the wrap party at the end of production. Too, too cool! Thank you BGS.
 |
You scored as The Vine. In Celtic astrology, you’re a Vine (not everything on the zodiac is a tree). The animal symbol that accompanies this plant is the swan. The ancient Druids say Vine people are graceful, discriminating, perceptive, romantic and have good aesthetics. However, Vines may be prone to procrastination and anxiety. They may also appear emotionally detached or even stuck-up.
What Tree Are You? (Celtic astrology) |
But now, O Jacob, listen to the Lord who created you. O Israel, the one who formed you says, “Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine…. Others were given in exchange for you. I traded their lives for yours because you are precious to me. You are honored, and I love you." — Isaiah 43:1,4
The conversation is all too familiar. You’d think by now I’d know how it ends. But I never seem to remember. I guess I just get too locked up in my own fear to see anything beyond my own nose. And sometimes even that’s obscured.
It starts with a vague feeling of unease. My need to control, or at least to know what’s happening, translates that feeling into a reason: "I must be uneasy because ______." All that is left is for my mind to fill in the blank with any number of possible causes. It picks the easiest, or perhaps just the most familiar. And thus our conversation begins.
I cry out in fear, worry quickly turning to panic. God quietly listens. Finally I fall silent, frustrated with His quietness, taking ragged breaths into my panic-ridden body. But my own silence is short-lived. I cannot stop the thoughts now. They are like a runaway train on a downhill slope. How in the world will I ever survive? Why am I here? What’s the point of living? Life is so fragile. The balance of life is too hard to manage. I cannot do this! God, Help me!
Finally I stop to listen, to look Jesus in the eyes, imploring Him to speak. Softly He caresses my face. After a long moment, He quietly says, "Do you trust Me?"
The tears burn in my eyes and spill down over my cheeks. My heart is heavy, so heavy. I know what the "right" answer is, but I can’t lie. Not to Him. I shake my head. "No." The truth is, I don’t trust Him. I want to. At least I think I do. But right now, I don’t.
Everything in me wages a fierce war against the very idea of trusting God to take care of me, to provide for my needs. Especially my upbringing. My father taught me well. Oh, with words and sermons and scripture references he said to trust God, but with actions, attitudes and behavior he taught me to be self-sufficient, to rely more on my own abilities and resources than on unseen forces and to stock-pile, stock-pile, stock-pile. Like all little girls, I live to please my daddy. I live for his approval. Problem is, its hard to approve from the grave.
I wish I had a different set of daddy issues. Heavenly ones. I wish I could say I spend my days longing for my Heavenly Abba’s approval; that I live to please my Heavenly Father. I’m trying to, I really am. But old habits die hard. Very hard. Perhaps someday I’ll be able to say I do. But right now, right now I struggle with the old tapes, the old patterns of life long ingrained in the depths of my being.
Jesus repeats His question, softly, gently, "Do you trust Me?" And He holds out His hand. In order to take hold of it, I’m going to have to let go of something…
I’m trying. God knows I’m trying.
No, I’m not referring to my sister’s home. I came down New Year’s Eve with some of the worst crud I’ve had in a while. By the time I got to my doctor Wednesday morning it had turned into a nasty asthmatic bronchitis with a little Pink Eye added just for kicks. Bleh.
I’ve spent the last two and a half days laying on my couch wishing I was comatose, or at least could stop coughing and shivering with chills and fever. But things finally began to break late this afternoon, and I’m starting to feel a little more like myself. It’s nice.
It was kinda crappy to be all feverish and chilling on New Year’s Eve. It was especially hard to go to church that morning. I hadn’t gotten much sleep since the fever started during the night. I ended up dozing through the sermon — and I didn’t even care. And I was on the second row. 
HA! Guess that’s the good part of having a fever; you don’t have the energy to be embarrassed by your own actions.
Despite all that, I had a good New Year’s Eve celebration. We just hung out at my sister’s, ate good Christmas candy and watched the ball drop in New York at midnight. Much of the day was spent watching the second season of Lost, which, thankfully, doesn’t take much energy. Oh, and we watched the dogs go crazy with all the fireworks going off. They just didn’t know what to do with themselves; running from the front of the house to the back and then back again, searching in vain for the source of the crazy booms and barking at us to either set them free to find them or to shut them up ourselves.
And while we’re on the subject, what’s the deal with the South and shooting off fireworks all year round?? Every time I hear them I’m completely thrown off. They are illegal throughout most of Southern California, so it’s hard for me to wrap my brain around the idea that most cities/counties in the South allow people to own them and shoot them off whenever they want. I keep thinking of all the fire hazards and risks people are taking with every pop, whizzz and whistle/scream I hear. At the same time, I got very used to hearing gunshots during all my years in LA. You’d think those would send me through the roof more than fireworks, but, hey, you hear them often enough, you get desensitized to the sound. AND they do sound remarkably like a firecracker going off. So often, my first thought when hearing them in LA was that someone had set off a(n) (illegal) firecracker. It usually took a second for it to register it was gunshots. And like I said, I got pretty desensitized to it. I’d pray for the people involved, but rarely called 911 to report shots fired. Now, oddly enough, living here in the South, when I hear fireworks on any day other than the 4th of July, it’s really hard for me to remember that its fireworks, not gunshots, I’m hearing. And my first reaction is to pick up the phone and call the police. Cuh-razy.
Well, I got off on a tangent there, didn’t I. Guess I’m still pretty much a cotton-head… Hope your week has been better.
I leave in a few moments for Nina’s (my sister). I’m driving this time, because I couldn’t afford and airline ticket. And I’ll be at her house till New Year’s. Blogging will be sporadic at best — more than likely non-existent, as Nina doesn’t have wireless, so I’ll have to run down to Panera to snag some free Internet.
I pray that this Christmas Jesus will gently but persistently remind you of all the many blessings He showered on you this past year, and that He will continue to bless you throughout 2007. I pray that no matter how full or how empty the space under your tree on Christmas Eve, that God will give you eyes to see how full of spiritual presents He has filled it — It will take you a lifetime to unwrap them all!
See you in the New Year!
I ran across Debbie’s blog this morning, and found this post. It was exactly what I needed to read. I’m re-printing a letter Debbie says is from Beth Moore in 2005. I’ve had many moments like the one Beth describes, where God nudges, prods, and even gets in my face and says, "I want you to do_____ now." The difference is, I rarely step into those moments, and I miss so many blessings because of it.
Erwin said in his book, Seizing Your Divine Moment
This is who I want to become. A person who steps out of herself and her own comfort zone and into the lives of others. Someone who doesn’t allow fear to keep her from to seizing every moment that presents itself.
Beth Moore At The Airport
April 20, 2005
At the airport in Knoxville waiting to board the plane, I had the Bible on my lap and was very intent upon what I was doing. I’d had a marvelous morning with the Lord. I say this because I want to tell you it is a scary thing to have the Spirit of God really working in you. You could end up doing some things you never would have done otherwise. Life in the Spirit can be dangerous for a thousand reasons not the least of which is your ego. I tried to keep from staring, but he was such a strange sight. Humped over a wheelchair, he was skin and bones, dressed in clothes that obviously fit when he was at least twenty pounds heavier. His knees protruded from his trousers, and his shoulders looked like the coat hanger was still in his shirt. His hands looked like tangled masses of veins and bones. The strangest part of him was his hair and nails. Stringy gray hair hung well over his shoulders and down part of his back. His fingernails were long, clean but strangely out of place on an old man.
I looked down at my Bible as fast as I could, discomfort burning my face. As I tried to imagine what his story might have been, I found myself wondering if I’d just had a Howard Hughes sighting. Then I remembered that he was dead. So this man in the airport…an impersonator maybe? Was a camera on us somewhere? There I sat, trying to concentrate on the Word to keep from being concerned about a thin slice of humanity served on a wheelchair only a few seats from me. All the while my heart was growing more and more overwhelmed with a feeling for him. Let’s admit it. Curiosity is a heap more comfortable than true concern, and suddenly I was awash with aching emotion for this bizarre-looking old man.
I had walked with God long enough to see the handwriting on the wall. I’ve learned that when I begin to feel what God feels, something so contrary to my natural feelings, something dramatic is bound to happen. And it may be embarrassing. I immediately began to resist because I could feel God working on my spirit and I started arguing with God in my mind.
"Oh, no, God, Please, no." I looked up at the ceiling as if I could stare straight through it into heaven and said, "Don’t make me witness to this man. Not right here and now. Please. I’ll do anything. Put me on the same plane, but please don’t make me get up here and witness to this man in front of this gawking audience. Please, Lord!" There I sat in the blue vinyl chair begging His Highness, "Please don’t make me witness to his man. Not now. I’ll do it on the plane."
Then I heard it…"I don’t want you to witness to him. I want you to brush his hair."
The words were so clear, my heart leapt into my throat, and my thoughts spun like a top. Do I witness to the man or brush his hair? No brainer. I looked straight back up at the ceiling and said "God, as I live and breathe, I want you to know I am ready to witness to this man. I’m on this Lord. I’m you’re girl! You’ve never seen a woman witness to a man faster in your life. What difference does it make if his hair is a mess if he is not redeemed? I am going to witness to this man."
Again as clearly as I’ve ever heard an audible word, God seemed to write this statement across the wall of my mind. "That is not what I said Beth. I don’t want you to witness to him. I want you to go brush his hair."
I looked up at God and quipped, "I don’t have a hairbrush. It’s in my suitcase on the plane. How am I supposed to brush his hair without a hairbrush?"
God was so insistent that I almost involuntarily began to walk toward him as these thoughts came to me from God’s word: "I will thoroughly furnish you unto all good works." (2Timothy 3:17) I stumbled over to the wheelchair thinking I could use one myself.
Even as I retell this story my pulse quickens and I feel those same butterflies. I knelt down in front of the man and asked as demurely as possible, "Sir, May I have the pleasure of brushing your hair?"
He looked back at me and said, "What did you say?"
"May I have the pleasure of brushing your hair?" To which he responded in volume ten, "Little lady, if you expect me to hear you, you’re going to have to talk louder than that." At this point, I took a deep breath and blurted out, "SIR, MAY I HAVE THE PLEASURE OF BRUSHING YOUR HAIR?"
At which point every eye in the place darted right at me. I was the only thing in the room looking more peculiar than old Mr. Longlocks. Face crimson and forehead breaking out in a sweat, I watched him look up at me with absolute shock on his face, and say, "If you really want to."
Are you kidding? Of course I didn’t want to. But God didn’t seem interested in my personal preference right about then. He pressed on my heart until I could utter the words, "Yes , sir, I would be pleased. But I have one little problem. I don’t have a hairbrush."
"I have one in my bag," he responded. I went around to the back of that wheelchair, and I got on my hands and knees and unzipped the stranger’s old carry-on, hardly believing what I was doing. I stood up and started brushing the old man’s hair. It was perfectly clean, but it was tangled and matted. I don’t do many things well, but must admit I’ve had notable experience untangling knotted hair mothering two little girls.
Like I’d done with either Amanda or Melissa in such a condition, I began brushing at the very bottom of the strands, remembering to take my time not to pull. A miraculous thing happened to me as I started brushing that old man’s hair. Everybody else in the room disappeared. There was no one alive for those moments except that old man and me. I sound so strange, but I’ve never felt that kind of love for another soul in my entire life. I believe with all my heart, I-for that few minutes-felt a portion of the very love of God. That He had overtaken my heart for a little while like someone renting a room and making Himself at home for a short while. The emotions were so strong and so pure that I knew they had to be God’s.
His hair was finally as soft and smooth as an infant’s. I slipped the brush back in the bag, went around the chair to face him. I got back down on my knees, put my hand on his knees and said, "Sir, do you know my Jesus?"
He said, "Yes, I do." Well that figures, I thought. He explained, "I’ve known Him since I married my bride. She wouldn’t marry me until I got to know the Savior." He said, "You see, the problem is, I haven’t seen my bride in months. I’ve had open-heart surgery, and she’s been too ill to come see me. I was sitting here thinking to myself, what a mess I must be for my bride."
Only God knows how often He allows us to be part of a divine moment when we’re completely unaware of the significance. This, on the other hand, was one of those rare encounters when I knew God had intervened in details only He could have known. It was a God moment, and I’ll never forget it. Our time came to board, and we were not on the same plane. I was deeply ashamed of how I’d acted earlier and would have been so proud to have accompanied him on that aircraft.
I still had a few minutes, and as I gathered my things to board, the airline hostess returned from the corridor, tears streaming down her cheeks. She said, "That old man’s sitting on the plane sobbing, Why did you do that? What made you do that?"
I said, "Do you know Jesus? He can be the bossiest thing!" And we got to share. I learned something about God that day. He knows if you’re exhausted because you’re hungry, you’re serving in the wrong place or it is time to move on, but you feel too responsible to budge. He knows if you’re hurting or feeling rejected. He knows if you’re sick of drowning under a wave of temptation. Or He knows if you just need your hair brushed. He sees you as an individual. Tell Him your need!
I got on my own flight, sobs choking my throat, wondering how many opportunities just like that one had I missed along the way…all because I didn’t want people to think I was strange. God didn’t send me to that old man. He sent that old man to me.
John 1:14 "The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth."
Life shouldn’t be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather, to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly shouting, "Wow! What a ride! Thank you, Lord!"
Sometimes I wish I could take back something I said; a joke that didn’t go over, a flippant comment that hurt a friend, a rant made in anger laced with mean words I didn’t really mean, I just wanted someone to hurt as much as I did.
And then there are those times I say things that clearly reveal the selfishness, the self-centeredness, of my own heart. Being a self-centered creature, those are the ones that haunt me the longest, and the ones I wish I could most take back. I hate when I expose the darkness in me. I can get forgiveness, and absolution (if Southern Baptists actually qualify for that sort of thing), from others for all the other regrettable comments, and put them behind me. But I cannot seem to grant myself forgiveness for exposing the ugly truth of my own heart.
I will regret this day for some time to come. I was doing so well too; leaving a good impression, always important when making a new friend. Then something pushed my own desperate need to the front of my mind, pressing it against that part of my brain that queues up the next mouthful of conversation. No, I thought. I cannot say that. It reveals too much. But something pushed it to the front of the line — I thought it was God, but now I’m not at all convinced it was — and before I knew what was happening, my own selfish need was pouring out of my mouth like water from a fire hydrant, and that was that. Good impression gone, replaced by harsh reality.
God, I’m so sick of myself. I am so sick of the self-focus that has so dominated my life the last three years. I need to become someone else.
Driving home tonight, I took a hard look at myself. It wasn’t pretty. At least I didn’t think so. There was a time when I thought more of others’ needs than my own, more of others’ hurts than my own; when my conversations with God were more about Him blessing others than of healing me.
I realize that there was a lot of co-dependency in those conversations. My happiness and sense of value was directly tied to the happiness and well-being of those around me, especially those closest to my heart. So my prayers for them and focus on them was actually selfishly motivated. The last two years of digging through my past and honestly facing my own brokenness taught me this. But I had to wonder tonight, am I any better a person for all my knowledge? Yes, now I know my own feelings, I’ve learned to feel them instead of run from them, and to acknowledge them instead of burying them in the deepest crevasses of my heart. That is a good thing. But, dang, Lu, when are you going stop crying about yourself all the time and start crying over the pain of others again? When are you going to spend more time talking to God about something other than your own brokenness? Isn’t that the point of all this intense digging into your soul, and all the counseling you’ve been getting, to become someone secure enough in her own identity in Christ that you don’t need to constantly focus on yourself? When does it shift from staring at your own navel to seeing the world around you?
Aaaauuugggh! I’m so frustrated with myself. I know what is right, what I ought to do — what I want to do. But I don’t do it. Its the things I don’t want to do, the person I don’t want to be—that, I do and so, so very naturally. Aaauugghhh!
But I need something more! For if I know the law but still can’t keep it, and if the power of sin within me keeps sabotaging my best intentions, I obviously need help! I realize that I don’t have what it takes. I can will it, but I can’t do it. I decide to do good, but I don’t really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway. My decisions, such as they are, don’t result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep within me and gets the better of me every time…. I’ve tried everything and nothing helps. I’m at the end of my rope. Is there no one who can do anything for me? Isn’t that the real question?
The answer, thank God, is that Jesus Christ can and does. He acted to set things right in this life of contradictions where I want to serve God with all my heart and mind, but am pulled by the influence of sin to do something totally different. — Romans 7:17-25, The Message
When did Christmas become about getting presents rather than giving gifts? When did it change from celebrating Jesus and His gift of Himself for us to anticipating all the toys I’m gonna get? Or was it ever really about the former and always about the latter, and I just didn’t realize it until now?
I’m not talking about the commercialization of Christmas here. I’m talking about the selfishness of my heart. I never realized how important getting Christmas presents is to me until recently. It all started with my sister’s announcement that they were broke, so Christmas would be a little low on presents this year. While that announcement alone wasn’t enough to kick my greed into overdrive, it was enough to drive my mind back to Christmases of "yore", when gifts were plentiful and there was no room under the tree for Baby Jesus (he belonged in the nativity scene on the table, anyway).
Then came the hints that our department was foregoing giving us a Christmas bonus this year; hints dropped ever so surreptitiously by my supervisors, who then fell mysteriously silent and evasive on the subject as days went by. I, like every other unwise, overeager employee, had counted my bonus dollars before they were given and had plans for each and every one of them. They were good plans, to be sure. An external hard-drive to back up my laptop (it is over 2 years old now, after all), new good quality (ie expensive) shoes — which are desperately needed at the moment — and accessories for my iPod. I tried not to worry too much; or think too much about the planned purchases now in jeopardy. But as the days turned into weeks and we got closer to the last day the whole department would be together, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed, even angry, at the prospect of yet another unmet Christmas expectation.
Especially after I received our company’s idea of a Christmas present.
I realize I ought to be grateful the company gives out gifts at all. Some companies don’t do anything. Yet at the same time I suffer from being spoiled by my fourteeen years years in the entertainment industry, where gifts flowed like honey from an open bee hive; and they weren’t cheap gifts, either. Because everyone in Hollywood knows the way into the good favor of an
executive or a producer is by staying in the good graces of their
assistant. And the best way to do that is to give them really great
Christmas gifts. I got everything from the latest DVD releases to spiffy-cool raincoats to Tiffany parfum and pens. Yes, I was spoiled. I know what good company gifts are. And I did not get one from my company.
As I said, I realize I should be grateful I got anything, but they made it so blasted hard to be so. There was a card, gushing about how much they appreciated all our hard work, blah-blah-blah… and it was obvious they were serious in their gushing. However, their idea of a great, amazing "Thank You for all your hard work over the last year" gift to all their employees was, wait for it……
A pillow.
Yes, folks. My employer gave me a little bean-filled pillow for Christmas. Wow. Who
was the genius who came up with this gem of a gift? I can just hear the gift ideas brainstorming session now: "What shall we give them, uncle Scrooge?" "A lump of coal?" "naw, that’s been done to death…" "Oh, I’ve got an idea! Let’s give them over-sized hacky-sacks and call them pillows!" Not that I’m bitter about it or anything…..
Perhaps they want me to use that pillow to take a nap
every afternoon, instead of working so dang hard. Perhaps I ought to, now that I have a pillow. But what I really want to do is beat all the executives — or at least the one in charge of picking out the gift — over the head with it. Hard. A pillow?! What the…?! What in the world were you thinking??
Now, I could understand if we were on the verge of bankruptcy or in otherwise serious financial trouble. But the fact is, our executives just banked millions of dollars in stock sales. They couldn’t spare at least one of those millions to shower on us, their faithful, hard-working employees?
It was in the middle of my internal rant after picking up my gift that I realized just how greedy my little heart is. All this anger over a stupid pillow, all this frustration over unmet expectations, all this anxiety over whether or not the bonus was coming — and where’s Jesus in all this? Who’s birthday is it, anyway? Mine? —Nope. Then why was I expecting to be the star of the day and the recipient of all the really cool presents?
I had to laugh at myself, at my own folly. I must look pretty ridiculous to God, ranting away over something as insignificant as a little bean pillow. Especially when so many in the world don’t even have a place to lay their head. Or worrying if I’ll get to buy an expensive pair of shoes when most of the world is too poor to even own one pair of cheap rubber flip flops. How many people went to sleep hungry tonight? How many more will die of starvation tomorrow? How many don’t even know, have never heard, the real reason for celebrating Christmas?
When did I get so greedy? When did I start thinking of Christmas as a celebration of me, rather than a celebration of Jesus? When did I get so wrapped up in getting that I forgot to look around and thank God for all I’ve already been given? A couple weeks ago during his sermon, Jeff told us about something his daughter said. They were busy decorating up the house, tinsel and garland and ornaments everywhere, when his little girl looked around and asked, "where Baby Jesus??" Turned out he’d gotten lost among all the stuff and ended up at the other end of the house from where he belonged.
That’s what happened in my heart. Jesus got lost in all my own Christmas "stuff". It took getting smacked in the face with my own greed, wrapped up in bean-filled pillow, for me to realize that.
Dear Jesus, forgive me! Let me put You back in the center of the celebration, where You belong.
PS — The bonus came through at the eleventh hour. It’s half what it was last year, but who’s counting anymore, right? Yeah, maybe I need to smack myself in the face with the pillow again…