The Brat Gives Thanks

"...in everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you."

~ 1 Thessalonians 5: 18

"Oh, give thanks to the LORD, for He is good! For His mercy endures forever."

~ Psalm 107: 1

As much as I've been itching lately to devote a lengthy blog to the farcical display of grossly misguided naivete parading under the banner of "justice" (I refer to the nauseating executive decision to hold a civil courtroom trial for unrepentant terrorist Khalid Sheik Mohammed), I've decided to focus my next entry, this one, on more positive things. So, for the moment, I'll set aside political rantings and ravings (and oh, there are so many!) and talk about something very pertinent to the week for most American citizens: Thanksgiving.

My parents lovingly refer to me as "The Brat." I guess it's their pet name for me. Since my wedding day the name has evolved into a playful rendition of my married name, Brotzge. Hence, the new pet name: Bratzge. (Cute, isn't it?) I know that, when my parents call me "The Brat," it is done so in playful affection and love. They don't really think that I'm a brat (at least not most of the time, I presume).

Except for one thing: I am a brat.

Since Thanksgiving is coming up, like a well-programmed robot, about one week prior I begin to meditate on all the things for which I should be grateful. Now here's the part where my utterly self-absorbed, conceited brattiness is evident: I can only name about five or six things before I'm stumbling and faltering over the words and straining to think -- really hard -- about all of my blessings. So it occurs to me, with painful, stinging clarity, that I really am a brat. And I'm the worst kind of brat, too. I'm the kind of ungrateful brat who doesn't truly realize how utterly bratty I am, and who, for myriad reasons, should have not one bratty bone in my body.

But the truth is that I'm a brat.

Now I want you to know what I am not attempting to do here: I'm not attempting to solicit sympathetic condolences meant to assuage guilt. I'm not attempting to be overly harsh toward myself, and I'm not attempting melodramatic melancholy. I want to be truly, brutally honest with myself, with you, and with God. When I reflect on the content of my heart, the sad fact is that I am woefully ungrateful. What makes this so utterly repulsive is that I am abundantly blessed. And what is a brat, after all, but a whining, spoiled ingrate?

It would appear, then, to be a hopelessly depressing scenario, except for one wonderful thing: God's grace.

Oh, the beautiful grace of God. If ever a brat didn't deserve such lavish beauty and unrelenting mercy, then that brat is I. And His grace in His Word reminds me, over and over again, to be thankful. Moreover, He seems to be telling me -- oh so graciously -- to fix my heart on being grateful in whatever my circumstance:

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God...

Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise. Be thankful to Him and bless His name.

Let your conduct be without covetousness; be content with such things as you have. For He Himself has said, 'Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.'

In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

And the list goes on and on...

One can determine a great deal about the state of one's heart based on nothing more (or less) than an attitude of thankfulness. And that's why I say, upon reflection, that I realize my heart is not where it needs to be. Not even close. But thank goodness for God's grace, and thank goodness that He allows me to confess and repent and recognize this ingratitude. Thank goodness that He lets me ask that I might have a grateful heart. It seems like such a simple request. In truth, though, to ask for a grateful heart is to ask a loving Father for one of the greatest gifts He gives. It is one of the richest blessings in the universe, an abundant fountain of joy from which nothing less than the heartbeat of life is derived.

I have a long way to go. But before my straining eyes, like emerging stars in the black canvas of night, I can begin to see them: Myriad upon myriad of blessings, shining brilliantly, extending endlessly into the unfathomable reaches of God's grace....

Thank You, Jesus, oh thank You, for these...

• a wonderful marriage
• a gentle, loving, and godly husband
• salvation and freedom from sin
• hope
• the Bible
• the Cross
• parents that are still married and love each other
• poetry
• quiet mornings
• my narcissistic cat
• my dear brothers
• a family with a sense of humor
• laughter
• good food
• friends
• my church
• my pastors and their wives
• my sisters-in-law
• babies
• women who courageously choose life for their children
• learning, learning, learning
• my wonderful in-laws
• good books
• sweet dreams
• quiet places of great beauty
• music
• the stately beauty of barren trees in Winter
• the warmth of the sun on my face
• the beauty of Creation
• eternity
• chocolate
• precious nieces and nephews
• my health
• the health of those I love
• the pain and suffering I've been spared in life
• America
• freedom
• my home
• gerber daisies
• walking barefoot in the grass
• sexual intimacy in marriage (this is a really good one, by the way) *wink*
• my best friend
• the moon's luminous beauty
• the sound of water
• holiness
• goodness
• truth

Amen.

You'll Be Blessed

Driving is tedious work when it involves traveling from Kentucky to Oklahoma in one day. Shifts are necessary. When it's my shift I want music. And I've always loved the music of Elton John.

Somewhere in Indiana my hubby slid the sleek, silvery disc into the player. Don't go breakin' my heart! Elton John pleads, to which Deedee Kee replies enthusiastically, "I couldn't if I tried!" After about one minute I could practically see the disco ball spinning faithfully over the vinyl-covered seats. Oh, the seventies.

The midwestern scenery began to pass easily as I sang out familiar lyrics like "I'm still standing -- yeah, yeah, yeah!" and "You can't hurry love, no you'll just have to wait...". It was upbeat and fun and spontaneous -- the best way to traverse endless cornfields.

About 20 miles and 100 farms later, the music changed. Rather than an upbeat, disco-like tune, this song spoke deep-rooted emotion in every opening note. It sounded a little bit like a lullaby. Then the words began: "Hey you, you're a child in my head. You haven't walked yet. Your first words have yet to be said...". Suddenly, I was crying. I wasn't supposed to be crying! Where was my fun-loving, upbeat disco music -- the tunes that made the cornfields pass by so pleasantly? Now the pasturelands blurred in my vision as he continued to sing, "but I swear you'll be blessed."

I had heard this song before, and though I remember liking it, it had always been one of those 'serious' songs that came in between his more chipper tunes. Sometimes I likely skipped ahead to signature Elton John stuff, the songs I remember piping out at fifth grade slumber parties in between adolescent girl-talk and lime-flavored popsicles. Those songs reminded me of time gone by, of the past. But this song -- it reminded me of, somehow, the future. How could the future make me cry?

As the lyrics continued, I realized that this simple song echoed a cry in my heart: The longing -- the hope -- for a child. Not a self-centered longing, as the lyrics so beautifully betrayed, but a selfless one. The sacrificial desire "to have and to hold" that child, as Elton John sings, and to invest my own life in him or her -- that is the emotion that stirred my heart and made me cry. The future made me cry.

I want to share those lyrics with whomever may be reading this. But I also want to dedicate them to the child -- or children -- of my future. These lovely lyrics are for you, and so I send them out into the future.

And I promise you that you'll be blessed.

Hey you, you're a child in my head.
You haven't walked yet.
Your first words have yet to be said;
But I swear you'll be blessed.
I know you're still just a dream.
Your eyes might be green,
or the bluest that I've ever seen;
Anyway, you'll be blessed.
And you -- you'll be blessed, you'll have the best, I promise you that;
I'll pull your star from the sky, pull your name from a hat;
I promise you that, I promise you that, I promise you that you'll be blessed.
I need you before I'm too old,
To have and to hold,
To walk with you and watch you grow
And know that you're blessed.
And you -- you'll be blessed, you'll have the best, I promise you that;
I'll pull your star from the sky, pull your name from a hat;
I promise you that, I promise you that, I promise you that you'll be blessed.

Becoming the Rose

Let grief do its work, send sorrow or pain; sweet are thy messengers, sweet their refrain, if they can sing with me: 'More love, O Christ to Thee. More love to Thee. More love to Thee.'

~ Elizabeth Prentiss


"We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be."

So said C.S. Lewis, and I must confess that I haven't read the above quote in context, nor do I know in which of his books it is to be found. I came across it in a fiction book recently, quite by God's grace, for the moment was ripe for me to hear those words. The moment is still ripe, actually, and ripening more by the hour.

If you have been acquainted with me over the last few years, you probably know that I have a paralyzing fear of flying. Why is this relevant, you ask? How is this related to pain and suffering and God doing the best for us? It isn't really directly related to Lewis's quote, but I bring it up because this fear is so raw and real that it deprives me of all common sense and rationality. It's not an "Oh man, I'd really rather not fly" kind of fear. It's a heart-pounding, tears-inducing, please-hand-me-the-paper-bag-so-I-can-breathe-into-it-or-vomit kind of fear. In short, when I fly I'm brought face to face with the stark reality that life is, well... dangerous. And I'm not in control.

I don't like those feelings.

Here's the thing, though: I've flown twice in the last week, and it was the least scary thing I've encountered in recent days. I'm not saying I was perfectly at ease and didn't yearn for the paper bag once or twice. I wasn't. And I did. But compared to other events, the flying was actually small potatoes. The really scary stuff involved people and deferred hope and pain. The really scary stuff was about life on the ground, the place where I normally feel the most secure and safe.

Life is hard right now. We might not be able to have any children. People I love are hurting each other and acting selfishly. Other people I love are suffering physically and dealing with the frustrations of growing older. Lately it's been one thing after another. One bad thing after another. Lately I've wondered what lovely rose will blossom at the end of this thorn-riddled path.

If I believe God's promises, and I do, then I must trust that the beauty in the pain is the transformation of my heart into the likeness of His precious Son. But if I believe God's Word, and I do, then I must realize that the transformation comes through suffering. It always does. And there's the rub: I want to become the rose. But I need to walk through the thorns and thistles of a fallen world in order to get there.

The other night, as I lay crying in bed, Lewis's words came to me so strongly: "We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us. We are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be." I was laying there in bed, shaking like a leaf, totally helpless and afraid. I was more afraid in that moment than I was the day before when I stepped onto a flying, metal box, scanning the seats for the nearest paper bag.

And it occurred to me in that moment that life is, well... dangerous. And I'm not in control. It's true whether I'm 36,000 feet in the air or lying in the comfort of my bed at home. It's the stark reality of living between Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. God might not give me the things I most want. He never promised that He would. He may decide to take me through the turbulence of loss and grief and suffering much more than I ever would have dared imagine. But He'll do it because He loves me, and He wants me to be like Him.

The best lies ahead of me, beautiful and radiant, born of redemptive love. The road there... that's another story. Prickly and painful, certainly. Uncomfortable and uncertain, probably.

Worth it? Definitely.

The Enemy Within

"A general dissolution of principles and manners will more surely overthrow the liberties of America than the whole force of the common enemy. While the people are virtuous they cannot be subdued; but when they lose their virtue they will be ready to surrender their liberties to the first external or internal invader... If virtue and knowledge are diffused among the people, they will never be enslaved. This will be their great security."

~ Samuel Adams, February 12, 1779

Lately I've been reading a lot of early American historical documents. One of the most stark features of the men and women who helped establish our country was their fearless commitment to integrity. I'm not espousing the belief that all of our founding fathers were Christians (although a great many of them were indeed); rather, I am acknowledging that they were passionately united by a desire to establish a nation based on principles of virtue, industriousness, and freedom. I'm going to write this piece under the assumption that we understand the definitions of these principles. Virtue being integrity; industriousness, hard work; and freedom, the liberty to choose what is right, not the right to choose whatever we deem acceptable.

Samuel Adams states, in the above quote, that when "the people are virtuous, they cannot be subdued." I thought for awhile about what he meant by that statement. The letter which contains this statement was written during the infancy of our country, in a time of great opposition and, in a sense, instability. Samuel Adams knew that, in order to truly succeed as a nation, virtue is a necessity. Without it, there is no passion; only complacency and ignorance.

I'm sure Mr. Adams was educated in world history. Every kingdom and empire suffers and eventually falls when given over to greed, tyranny, and corruption. Finally, here was a nation established upon an entirely different set of beliefs: just and limited rule, freedom, generosity, and righteousness.

I don't believe that America was established as a perfect nation, and I certainly don't believe she is perfect today. But I do believe, unashamedly, that America is a great nation, the greatest that ever graced the earth, because of her founding devotion to virtue.

But where is America's virtue now? It's still there, in the annals of documents established at our nation's birth, established for our well-being within and influence without -- "a shining light on a hill." It is still there, if only we will listen and heed the words and warnings of the men who knew, all too well, the price and the requirement of freedom.

There is an almost eerie, prophetic sound to Samuel Adams' quote: "...when they lose their virtue they will be ready to surrender their liberties to the first external or internal invader." There are not just enemies without; there are enemies within. I become as much an instigator of America's downfall when I fall into complacency, turning a blind eye to my own selfishness and lack of integrity. I instigate it again when I ignore the same from those around me.

Samuel Adams goes on to say that virtue and knowledge diffused among the people will be America's great security. He speaks of virtue and knowledge like two conjoined links on the same chain. Virtue and knowledge go hand in hand. When virtue is lost, there is a loss of passion (the people are 'subdued'). When passion is lost, replaced by indifference, there is an inevitable loss of knowledge. With the loss of knowledge comes the loss of the most basic common sense; we cease to think clearly. If we cannot think clearly and rationally, how on earth can we defend ourselves from enemies without and within?

Virtue and knowledge are inseparable in Peter's second letter, in the New Testament: "Giving all diligence, add to your faith virtue, to virtue knowledge..." (2 Peter 1; 5). Virtue is the predecessor of knowledge; knowledge cannot exist in its truly sublime and effective form when it is not wedded to virtue.

I love America. It's not very popular to say that anymore, but I'm not after popularity. I want truth. The truth is that America was founded as an astonishingly beautiful and counter-cultural "light on a hill." The men and women who fought for her sacrificed more than we can begin to imagine to make her a reality. This reality was not for themselves alone; it was for their posterity. It was for those by whom they were surrounded. It was for the other dreamers crazy enough to cross oceans and mountains and deserts in order to obtain, by diligent and honest hard work, the same beloved liberty. They knew that an America that held onto her virtue would not cease to offer, without and within, the hope of freedom.

I love America. I love the virtue that shone like a beacon to light the path for her birth. But I fear for her, too. I fear that we may fall so far from our height that we will not be able to climb back. Will I still be free, truly free, in twenty years? What kind of nation will be left for my future children? Will I have to know, like so many people in the world's history, the terrors of a nation built upon oppression and ignorance?

Thomas Jefferson, though certainly not a Christian (although perhaps a Deist), understood the beauty of virtue. He valued it. He also valued knowledge and freedom. Jefferson possessed a keen understanding of the grave danger in stubbornly refusing to acknowledge, as a nation, the source of our blessing:

"God who gave us life gave us liberty. And can the liberties of a nation be thought secure when we have removed their only firm basis, a conviction in the minds of the people that these liberties are the Gift of God? That they are not to be violated but with His wrath? Indeed, I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that His justice cannot sleep forever."

So do I, Thomas. So do I.