Weirdo

This is an article I wrote in March, 2017:

        “For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb.  

          I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works;   my soul knows it very well.

My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.” – Tehillim/ Psalms 139:13-16

I am weird. There is no way to sugarcoat it. I know it. People around me know it. Basically it’s not a secret. 

 I read a banner once that said “Sometimes I get so weird, I even freak myself out.” And I thought, ‘Yes! I’m not the only weirdo out there!’

Now, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t set out to be a weirdo. I just turned out to be one. Whether it’s because I was made that way or worked myself out into being one it’s anyone’s guess, but the fact remains, I am one.  And I’m OK with it. For the most part. I guess it becomes a problem when I’m in a group of people and they all seem to agree on some amazing truth or idea and I am always the one with the ‘yes, that’s true, BUT…’ And it’s amazing to see all eyes turn on you like ‘what is wrong with you?’ and instead of pointing out the obvious I choose to own it. I’m a weirdo. Get over it! 

For the longest time I tried to change. I thought, “I need to fix me. To make whatever makes me wrong, right.” So I began to search for people that I could look up to and imitate them. I tried to borrow things I admired about them and tried them on. That was a fiasco. I felt like David HaMelech when he tried on Shaul’s armor on. It didn’t fit. That just made me upset with HaKadosh Baruch Hu (The Holy One, blessed is He). I was like, “Was it such a struggle to make me normal? I can’t walk like other people, or talk or reason like they do. Basically I can’t do anything like other people. I try to be kind and it comes out offensive. I try to be good-natured and it comes out angry. I try to be loving and it comes out harsh. I try to smile and I look like I’m in pain. Seriously Adonai, what were You thinking?” And HaShem, blessed be His name forever, didn’t smite me on the spot for my audacity, but instead gave me time. Yes, time. Unimpressive as that might sound to untrained ears, it was time. And I chose to employ it but looking at all things I deemed weird. I thought, I will not look at people I think are weird because maybe they became that way because of their sins so maybe HaShem didn’t make them weird. So I looked at things in nature. And my goodness, there are a ton of weird creatures out there. You know for sure that Adonai has a great sense of humor just by looking at some of His creation. 

It stands to reason to conclude that if He created such diversity in fauna, flora and wild life in general, He also created humans diverse and some of them, let’s face it, just plain weird. 

 

 
Every now and then, just to make myself feel better I’ll read articles about strange creatures. Last week I was reading on Frozen Planet an article about the Woolly bear caterpillar. It’s got a fancy Ancient Greek name Gynaephora groenlandica, because of course if you give whatever species an Ancient Greek or Latin name, it immediately elevates the creature. 

Anyway, the Wooly bear caterpillar:

"It’s always the first insect to appear after the snow retreats and the story of how it does so is truly astonishing. At the start of spring, the caterpillar eats as fast as it can, as indeed it must, for this far north, the season will be brief.

The days shorten only too soon, but the caterpillar has not yet got enough reserves to transform into a moth. It can’t leave the Arctic, for it can’t fly, so it settles down beneath a rock. The sun’s warmth rapidly dwindles. Beneath the rock, the caterpillar is out of the wind, but the cold penetrated deep into the ground. Soon, its heart stops beating. It ceases to breathe, and its body starts to freeze – first its gut, then its blood.

The following spring. After four months of darkness, the Arctic begins to thaw. And the caterpillar – rises from the dead. By the time the first shoots of willow appear in the early spring, the woolly bear is already eating. But no matter how fast the woolly bear eats, it will not have time to gather enough food this year, either, and the cold closes in once again.

Year after year, the caterpillar slows down in the autumn and then freezes solid. But eventually a very special spring arrives. This one will be its last. It’s now 14 years old – the world’s oldest caterpillar. Its remaining days now become frantic. It starts to weave a silk cocoon. Inside, its body is metamorphosing into one that can fly and search, abilities that will be crucial in the days ahead.

It’s waited over a decade for this spring and now, its time is near. All across the Arctic, moths are emerging. After completing their 14-year preparation, they now have just a few days to find a partner and mate.

No life illustrates more vividly the shortness of the Arctic spring or the struggle to survive in this most seasonal of places." – Borrowed fromThe Frozen Planet, written by David Attenborough

This caterpillar is unlike any other. It dies 7 to 14 times before it lives once. It knows it’s got wings somewhere inside itself, but regardless how hard it wishes or struggles it can’t make them appear. It can’t leave its place because it can’t fly away. So it dies every autumn and gets back to life every spring, hoping against all evidence of past experiences that this year might be the year it lives, only to die again. But one spring its hope is rewarded.

It might be dead for most of its life (yes, I am aware of the paradox) and utterly useless, but it’s got strength. Unbelievable strength. It has the ability to endure arctic cold. It’s got the ability to endure death time and time again. This caterpillar is amazing! Probably it feels every death as yet another failure. It doesn’t even know how amazing it is. Someone decided to take a look at it and record all its struggle and understand that it is amazing everything that this little creature endures and I can promise you, that one day someone will decide to take a look at everything that you endured or are enduring and think you're amazing.

If you judge this creature by its ability to fly when it is still just a caterpillar, you’ll be disappointed. If you judge it by its ability to travel great distances, you’ll be sorely unimpressed. It wasn’t made to travel great distances. It is  just a little weirdo in a frozen place and it does the best it can to be what it’s supposed to be.

Adonai is wise. (I know you’re impressed by my exceptional observational skills. I’m trying, OK?)

I learn a lot about the way He is by looking at what He made. It’s like looking at a painting and getting a feeling about the artist.

He’s OK with creating things that are different. But He’s always just and merciful. He doesn’t place anything in an environment without equipping that creature with everything it needs to be what it has to be.

I might be weird. And my weirdness makes some laugh and others run for the hills, but that’s alright. HaShem knew what He did when He made me. So, I don’t need to look, or act, or think like everybody else. I am beautifully made the way I am. I don’t need to fix my weirdness, because there’s nothing to fix.

You might judge a bird by its ability to swim and you’ll notice it is disappointing because it wasn’t made for that. You might judge me by whatever ability you think I should have and I can assure you I’ll disappoint you every time, because I wasn’t made for that.

I might admire people’s abilities in their environment and even learn from them, but I can’t be them. I am just me. And I am His. And I am weird. And that’s alright.

Bat Melech בת מלך

 Cristina כריסטינה

The battle is His

 Have you ever stood before something so foreign to you and so huge that your mind simply refuses to wrap itself around whatever it is you're facing? So obscure and alien that you can't even define it for you haven't been able to give it a name? Well, I am standing before something like that as we speak. In fact, it is something so big that I haven't found the voice to grunt about it let alone to put it in words. Two nights ago, while I was trying to pray about it, I told The Lord, 'I don't know how to pray about it, it's just in my path and I am stuck and will continue to be stuck. I don't know how to articulate it and I feel small and stupid standing before it. I tried telling it to move but it won't budge... I have faith, but it won't budge, so please help me!'

The earth didn't move and I didn't hear anything, but I had an image in my mind of Joshua and the battle of Jericho. I am scared like Joshua was. He was a warrior but he was scared. A paradox if there was ever one. He fought for God during the time of Moses and won pretty much every single time. He was an able man. But he was scared. Obviously not of battle, but of the shadow of Moses, the shoes he was meant to walk in. God has to go to him and tell him, 'be strong and courageous!' (Joshua 1:6,9) And Joshua decides to trust The One that commands him.

He arrives at Jericho and this thing seems impossible. Never mind they had just crossed the river Jordan in a miraculous way, but he was used to miracles. He passed through the dead sea. He ate manna from heaven for 40 years. He had heard God and saw everything God had done for Israel in the wilderness. But a city like that he was supposed to take over? I mean, look at those walls! Israel lived in tents. Those that had crossed the Jordan had never even seen houses! (Joshua and Caleb excluded) They were as uncivilized as only a nomadic people can be. And now they stood before a civilization that was more sophisticated than anything they've seen. They knew war, but in an open field! How does one even fight with something you have no name for. I can only imagine the Israelites gaping before those walls. But Joshua looked up, or lifted his eyes but not towards Jericho. No. He lifted his eyes, much like Abraham once did at the oaks of Mamre, and he saw 'a man was standing before him with his drawn sword in his hand.' Joshua is a good leader. He takes one look at this 'man' and he knows immediately he's not one of his men. 'And Joshua went to him and said to him, “Are you for us, or for our adversaries?” (Joshua 5:13)

That is a sentiment I carry often when I sit there confused. Whenever I need help because I'm stuck and there's no strategy in sight and I can barely remember all my principles of faith, I look up. Not because I'm that spiritual and I need you, my dear reader to be in awe of that fact. But because that's where I look when I exhaust every other alternative. And God has never let me down. He has come through every time, and I am sad to report that none of those times did I recognize Him immediately. I'm, more often than not, like the two disciples on the road to Emmaus. I walk with Him and talk to Him and as familiar as He seems, I can't recognize Him. And in my defense I'll need to point out that He never shows up waving a white flag. That would make things a lot clearer. He always shows up sword drawn and my first instinct is: that's an enemy! But I've learned to ask, 'are you on my side, or on my enemy's side?'

“And he said, “No; but I am the commander of the army of the LORD. Now I have come.” And Joshua fell on his face to the earth and worshiped and said to him, “What does my lord say to his servant?” (Joshua 5:14)

No. You've got it all wrong! This is My fight, not yours. You are but one division in this army I lead. I fight this war, now let Me tell you what your part will be in My fight.

Not every battle I fight is His battle. I wish I'd be that discerning to only fight His wars. Sadly I fight my own battles and sometimes with those that are His people! And then I want Him to choose sides. I'll let you in on a little secret: He NEVER does. He has a plan to fulfill. He leads an army. I am just one part of that army. It's His battle. He's not pleased with silly squabbles between those in His army. Arguments over whether one should clean his sword after every blow, or concerns about the states of one's shoes or belt or helmet that can make two of His own come to blows, are idiotic at best and damnable at worst. No, He's not picking sides for my gain. He has a plan and I am but a piece of the puzzle. It's His Kingdom that He's concerned with, not my own.

I could carry on on the subject forever, but I am more interested in this post I am writing in the strategy God gives Joshua. He tells him to circle the city for six days, once, silently. He appoints seven priests, each carrying a ram's horn to go before the ark of The Lord and sound the shofar once. But on the seventh day he asks them to circle the city seven times and to blow the shofar and on the last long sound, the whole army should shout as loud as they can and the walls will fall down. (Joshua 6) Needless to say they do as instructed and the walls fall down and they conquer the city.

I am taking the same strategy for myself. I look ridiculous of course. To silently walk around a fortress you mean to conquer does look ridiculous. I can't imagine what the people of Jericho were thinking while they were watching this army doing absolutely nothing. Making no threats, scaling no wall, firing no arrow, just silently circling it. I look ridiculous to whomever is watching me. No, I have no plan, thank you for asking! I am just waiting for God to fight His battle. I am silent because He works. It's His battle. Jericho's walls did not fall down because Israel made a great noise. They fell because God was victorious and they celebrated that victory with a great shout. The walls fell down only after they celebrated a victory they did not see. But they believed it. Because God had said so.

I don't have their faith. While I circle my fortress I worry that I will shout and nothing will happen. I'll look even more of a fool than I already do. But even as I worry, He knows I'll shout. Not because I have gained faith in the six days or years that it took me to circle this thing, but because He's worth my embarrassment. There's benefit in being a fool for Christ. People expect nothing
less. But my hope is not in my great shout, but in His ability to win. My voice can break in the process of cheering for Him, but cheering I will! 

by Cristina Pop 

Clearly

 I have always had perfect vision. In 2013 I remember, I really wanted glasses so I have convinced myself that I was basically blind. I was squinting all the time and every time people were handing me something to read or look closely at I kept on telling them, 'I can't see, sorry'. I made an appointment to see an eye doctor and she said, 'your vision is perfect, you don't need glasses.' But because I was so insistent she relented and ordered me a pair of screen protecting glasses, you know, so I wouldn't be blind. This year I did the same. Still perfect vision.

I want to see well. I think in images. I hypothesize, dream, translate concepts in images. I am a very visual person. I take hundreds of images precisely because I want to take in as much as possible. I've had people that have seen said pictures asking me why they are so vivid (colorful). I always answer the same, 'that's how they looked to me.' My point is, I love being able to see. Having said that, I don't trust my eyes. Why? Because they betray me all the time. A few times my blood sugar dropped enough that my vision became blurry and my visual field would tilt enough to communicate to my brain, 'it's unsafe, drop down!' The world doesn't really tilt. My eyes are betraying me and they misinform my brain about the reality. Sometimes when it's not completely dark outside and I try to interpret figures I see, some trees seem giant monsters, planes seem alien ships, smoke passing through the tiniest ray of light translates like ghosts. If water gets into my eyes I see everything blurry. My vision is not infallible. The accuracy of my vision is altered depending on the circumstances I am in.

It's the same for my spiritual sight. It's not infallible either.

Jacques Lusseyran was a Frenchman that fought in the WW2 for the Resistance. When he was 8, he was blinded in an accident caused by another schoolmate. He nonetheless finished his schooling because he was determined to be a part of the world around him. In 1941, when he was just 17 that world in which he wanted to participate got occupied by the Nazis. Lusseyran formed a resistance group with fifty-two boys and used his heightened senses to recruit the best. Eventually, Lusseyran was arrested and sent to the Buchenwald concentration camp in a transport of two thousand resistance fighters. He was one of only thirty from the transport to survive. His gripping story is one of the most powerful and insightful descriptions of living and thriving with blindness.

“Inside me there was everything I had believed was outside. There was, in particular, the sun, light, and all colors. There were even the shapes of objects and the distance between objects. Everything was there and movement as well… Light is an element that we carry inside us and which can grow there with as much abundance, variety, and intensity as it can outside of us…I could light myself…that is, I could create a light inside of me so alive, so large, and so near that my eyes, my physical eyes, or what remained of them, vibrated, almost to the point of hurting… God is there under a form that has the good luck to be neither religious, not intellectual, nor sentimental, but quite simply alive.”
― Jacques Lusseyran, And there was Light: Autobiography of Jacques Lusseyran

I love Jacques' story precisely because his lack of physical sight didn't extinguish his inner light. He used THAT light to create his inner world in more exact terms than a person with the ability to see is able to express in any coherent concepts. But more than anything I love the fact that in that inner world, the way he trained his 'eyes' to see God was not in religious terms, or intellectual, or sentimental, simply alive. That's a goal for me. I confess I am not there yet. I see God sometimes angry because I am angry at a situation and I project my anger on Him. Sometimes I see God all philosophical principles and ideas because that's my mood. Sometimes I feel like a toddler that wants to be picked up by her Father and everything is just feelings, and that's God for me. I haven't matured enough to let God simply be. The I AM. Most of the time He's crammed up in whatever role I need Him to play at that exact moment. And I experience real growing pains in my very psyche every time He tries to stretch a bit, to grow a bit. I want to create inside myself a place where He would love to dwell, where He can simply be. But in order to do that I need to train my spiritual eyes first. To accept as a matter of fact that if my physical conditions change that alters my vision, so is my spiritual vision obstructed by feelings, biases, resentment, anger, wishful thinking. But if I see right, then maybe He won't need to disguise Himself into whatever I want Him to be that moment. If I see right maybe, just maybe, Him simply being will be enough.

by Cristina Pop

My shelter

 I like to listen to some book or documentary until I fall asleep. I don't like to allow my mind to wonder aimlessly so I like to guide it when I can.

Last night I opened up my Youtube app to play something and the first video in my feed was this:

I do watch a lot of Israel related videos and follow quite a few Israelis on Youtbe so it's not that surprising that the algorithm has decided to suggest the video above.

Why am I posting this? Well, because while I was watching this guy trying to show what a home bomb shelter in Israel looks like, I had this verse in my mind: “In the cover of your presence you hide them from the plots of men; you store them in your shelter from the strife of tongues.” (Ps. 31:20)

The word there for shelter, in Hebrew is sukkah, which refers to booth or tabernacle. I've always thought of that verse in the context of Sukkot or the feast of the tabernacles. If you've ever seen a sukkah, you know it's a temporary dwelling, not very fancy, not particularly comfortable, so I always thought “God, on the day I need to run for cover, what can a sukkah do for me?' Last night though, while I was watching the video, although I have seen bomb shelters before, it was the first time that I thought, maybe that's what You are for me, Lord! A bomb shelter! Not a sukkah that a strong wind can tear apart, but a proper bomb shelter. Only it's not made out of concrete but love and instead of iron doors it's Your almighty arms. Even if my world implodes, if I'm in You, I'm safe. I don't live in my bomb shelter. But it's part of my inner building. I haven't made it. You made it when You have decided to dwell within me. It's the place I run to whenever I hear the sirens. It's the place where I cry in tears because the bombs might land on something I care about and destroy it. But even so, I KNOW I am safe. I can rebuild everything. I can heal because You are my Healer. I can repair whatever is broken, because You are The Builder of my world. I can let things die because You are my resurrection. But I am not terrified that I'll ever go beyond Your reach. “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” (Ps. 73:26)

For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth.

Even after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God. I will see Him for myself; my eyes will behold Him, and not as a stranger. How my heart yearns within me! (Job 19:25-27)

Thank you for saving me from me. And as if that hasn't been enough, You've made Yourself into a way under my feet, to run my race. You've made Yourself into my shield, my rock, my fortress! I am Your blessed daughter, because You're my inheritance forever!

By Cristina Pop

I know

 I wrote this on the 17th of may 2017 and something reminded me of it so I decided it bares repeating. 

Our biggest fear is being alone. Whether it is alone socially, alone in our feelings or alone in our faith, we fear being alone. 

When it comes to our walk with Adonai, we get scared as well. We’re in a relationship with an unseen Being that is silent most of the time and sometimes we try to guess His thoughts, because we don’t know for sure. And when we choose to hope in Him for a certain thing or the circumstances we face, we’re often faced with a little voice inside that comes and asks “where is your God? You’ve been hoping and believing your heart out and He’s silent… what if God is not with you in this thing? What if it was just your selfishness that wanted this? What if you thought you’re more special than you actually are? What if you’re on your own in this thing? What if you’re ALONE?” 

Now, I haven’t been on this earth that long and I can’t say that I have learned all that much about life in general. There are so many things I don’t know that it’s daunting sometimes. Even in the things I do know, I haven’t considered all sides and all perspectives so I am not sure how credible that makes me in any of my statements. Do I know everything there is to know about HaShem? (Laughing out loud!) NO. But even I, with the little I do know and understand about Him, I can tell you that the little voice that asks you all those things is lying to you. How do I know that? 

When Avraham Avinu was talking with Adonai, in Bereishit (Genesis) chapter 15, HaShem made a covenant with Avraham. And commentators of the Scriptures will have all kinds of interpretations of that passage, some more accurate than others, but I am not gonna talk about the covenant right now, maybe in a different post. Right now I’m going to focus on verse 12 where it says that while HaShem was making this covenant with Avraham, “and see, a horror, great darkness fell on him.” Why? Avraham was in the presence of Ha Kadosh Baruch Hu (The Holy One Blessed is He), how can it be that He was overcome with horror? And most importantly, He was in the presence of The Light how could he be surrounded by darkness?  And this is not the only time HaShem does this. When He made His covenant with Israel at Har Sinai (Mount Sinai) the people were horrified. There was darkness and loud noises and the people got scared. (Read Exodus 19, Deuteronomy 4)

 

You would think that the moment when HaShem makes a covenant would be the time to shine brightly and use everything at His disposal to attract the person that He wishes to make a covenant with. Why on earth would you turn off the light and use the scary effects? 

Because He knows we’re gonna start a journey with an unseen God in a scary place and unless you learn to know Him in darkness you’re going to walk your entire journey wondering if He has left you or not. 

David Ha Melech said in Tehillim 23 “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me”. But how do you know that?! BECAUSE He hasn’t dazzled me with His Light. He instead taught me to read His every feature in the dark, and I’m not scared anymore. He scared my fears away when darkness fell on me, because He taught me everything is smoke and mirrors. The only truth there is, is that HE IS and even better than anything else HE IS with me. 

Does that mean I never get scared again? No. I have learned about myself that I don’t doubt His ability to do one thing or another. I fear my ability to still believe if He doesn’t. I fear losing hope. I fear losing faith. I doubt me, not Him. But when that happens, you know what? I remember that I’ve learned Him in the dark. I remember my training. And I pull on the frailest hope I find within me and turn it into the power to say “This is not real… He is.” I don’t trust my faith to take me home. My faith is fickle. I don’t have faith in my faith. He will take me home. And that’s the only truth I know.  

Bat Melech בת מלך

 Cristina כריסטינה

Thank you for the fleas

I am not the most positive person in the world. I would describe myself as a realist but I've heard others saying I am negative. Be that as it may, I don't like to call good evil or evil good. I don't want to delude myself in any way, shape or form. That is both a blessing and a curse. It's a blessing because I avoid disappointment and it's a curse because it blinds me to a reality beyond my reality. It can be quite a struggle to summon up faith or gratitude for someone predisposed to making decisions based on facts alone. By that I don't mean being optimistic. Optimism was never and will never be a goal for me. Having a grateful heart and holding onto faith that's what I am after. Optimism gets you nowhere. 

There is a book, 'Good to great' by Jim Collins. In it, the author is interviewing Admiral James Stockdale, the highest ranking officer in US military to be imprisoned in the Hanoi Hilton (1965-1973). He asks the Admiral, “Who didn't make it out?” “Oh, that's easy,” said Stockdale. “It was the optimists. The optimists were the ones who said, “we're going to be out by Christmas. Christmas came and went. Then they'd say, “we're going to be out by Easter” and Easter would come and it would go. The optimists would pin their dates on Thanksgiving, then Christmas again, and eventually “they died of a broken heart”.....

“You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end. Instead you need to confront the the most brutal facts of your reality, whatever they might be.”

When it comes to this faith I've placed wholeheartedly in Jesus Christ, I am not some blind fool that is being led by wishful thinking. I don't believe in Him and follow Him until it feels like my feet are bleeding from trying to keep up with Him because I am an optimist. That's the last thing I am. I don't deny my present circumstances, I don't rebuke them or proclaim them away. I confront the facts. I see them for what they really are. As harsh, as scary and unmovable as they may be, I don't close my eyes and pretend I'm in a happy place. The last thing I need is for anyone to 'bring me down to earth'.

So no, I am not an optimist. I have faith. Not that things will be good for me. I have faith that He is good. My faith is not in some blissful future that He has for me because I follow Him. My faith is in Him that has crossed the heavens to make me His and come hell or high water will not let go of my hand until He gets me home safely. My hope is that all things work together for the good of those that love Him, even if I fail to recognize that good for what it is.

Corrie Ten Boom and he sister Betsie were two Christian Dutch women who helped harbor Jews from the Nazis in Holland during World War 2. After the sisters were arrested for doing so, they were imprisoned at Ravensbruck, a German concentration camp. The barracks they were assigned to were so awful that it almost broke their spirit. So awful in fact that Betsie died because of the conditions in those barracks. Now, there were no great barracks in any of the camps to be sure, but those that Corrie and Betsie were in had an extra blessing. Fleas. Those drove Corrie crazy. In an attempt to lift her spirit, Betsie tells Corrie to open the Bible they had smuggled in, and turns to 1 Thessalonians 5:14-18, “Comfort the frightened, help the weak, be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus …” “That’s it!” Betsie interrupted. “That’s His answer. ‘Give thanks in all circumstances!’ That’s what we can do. We can start right now to thank God for every single thing about these barracks!”

Corrie stared at her incredulously, then around at the dark, foul-smelling room. “Such as?” she inquired.

“Such as being assigned here together.”

Corrie bit her lip. “Oh yes, Lord Jesus!”

“Such as what you’re holding in your hands.”

Corrie looked down at the Bible. “Yes! Thank You, dear Lord, that there was no inspection when we entered here! Thank You for all the women, here in this room, who will meet You in these pages.”

“Yes,” agreed Betsie. “Thank You for the very crowding here. Since we’re packed so close, that many more will hear!” She looked at her sister expectantly and prodded, “Corrie!”

“Oh, all right. Thank You for the jammed, crammed, stuffed, packed, suffocating crowds.”

“Thank you,” Betsie continued on serenely, “for the fleas and for …”

That was too much for Corrie. She cut in on her sister: “Betsie, there’s no way even God can make me grateful for a flea.”

“Give thanks in all circumstances,” Betsie corrected. “It doesn’t say, ‘in pleasant circumstances.’ Fleas are part of this place where God has put us.”

As the weeks passed, Betsie’s health weakened to the point that, rather than needing to go out on work duty each day, she was permitted to remain in the barracks and knit socks together with other seriously-ill prisoners. She was a lightning fast knitter and usually had her daily sock quota completed by noon. As a result, she had hours each day she could spend moving from platform to platform reading the Bible to fellow prisoners. She was able to do this undetected as the guards never seemed to venture far into the barracks.

One evening when Corrie arrived back at the barracks Betsie’s eyes were twinkling. “You’re looking extraordinarily pleased with yourself,” Corrie told her.

“You know we’ve never understood why we had so much freedom in the big room,” Betsie said, referring to the part of the barracks where the sleeping platforms were. “Well—I’ve found out. This afternoon there was confusion in my knitting group about sock sizes, so we asked the supervisor to come and settle it. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t step through the door and neither would the guards. And you know why?” Betsie could not keep the triumph from her voice as she exclaimed, “Because of the fleas! That’s what she said: ‘That place is crawling with fleas!’ ”

You see... this irrational faith God has given us, is not for a happily ever after on earth. It has nothing to do with how good or how bad things work out for me. Even as I write this I have prayers before my King that He will work a miracle. I wish it more than anything I've wished and I have wished for a great many things in my life. But whether He does as I've asked Him or not, it doesn't change the way I see Him, love Him or follow Him. He is worth a tear or two, a broken heart or a missing limb.

There is a Romanian Christian song that my mom used to sing and it says, 'Lord, may I never be able to let go of You, even if I have to leave a buried love every step of the way.'

I hate pain. I hate loss. I hate suffering. I hate the fleas. I don't see their purpose. They are just an extra thing to torment me on top of many other things. But maybe... Just maybe, the fleas are a blessing in disguise.

By Cristina Pop

Real

 “The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”-- The Velveteen Rabbit, Margery Williams Bianco

Thank You Lord, for making me real. Not because there's anything special about me, but because Your love made me Real.

The pit

 The following is a story written by Rabbi Eli Landes. 

 

There’s a story they tell, when the taste for all other stories has run dry. When the tongue tires of weaving tales of sages and singing songs of heroes; when the heart feels cold and afraid, and nothing seems sufficient to chase away the dark. On days like those, when they’ve exhausted all other options, they tell the story of the pit.

And the prince who fell into it.

The pit is dark and deep, and the chances of the prince ever climbing out are slim-to-none. For all intents and purposes, this tale is over.

But not for him. His story doesn’t end when he falls into the pit.

That’s when it begins.

He falls long; falls hard. Bangs his head, scrapes his skin, sprains some bones. To a prince who has only ever known the soft comforts of a palace, the pain is blinding. He comes to a stop eventually, though how far away from the bottom is anyone’s guess. This pit is as wide as it is deep, filled with ledges and alcoves branching off into darkness. It seems endless—an impossible distance to climb and an impossible distance more to fall.

But the prince is indignant. He is a prince, after all. A prince does not belong in a pit. He belongs outside, free and proud and reunited with his father. So he picks himself up, dusts himself off, and sets off to find a way out.

It’s on one of his explorations that he finds the rope. There’s not much to it, really—just a thin, long rope, rising out of the pit into the world beyond. And yet, it’s somehow the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He runs to it, grasps it with both hands. At last, he has a way out.

But, as he soon discovers, leaving this pit is not so simple. He’s a prince, after all—his body isn’t made for rope climbing. His hands bleed, his muscles ache, his grip slips again and again. He forces himself to keep climbing, to fight through the exhaustion and the sweat and the pain, but for every step he gains he seems to fall two more, the excitement that once fueled him long since lost.

Yet still he climbs, compelled by a drive he cannot comprehend. A need to ascend. To return.

Until, one day, his grip fails.

And he falls.

He falls hard, hits a rocky ledge with a groan. He hasn’t fallen in a long time—not since he first fell into the pit. The pain is the first to hit: blinding, flooding his eyes with tears and spasming through his muscles. Then comes the anger. He surges to his feet, bends over and screams. It's not fair! He’s a prince. What business does a prince have in a pit?

So he sulks for a while: kicks at rocks, explores some caves, not accomplishing anything of value. He knows he’s procrastinating. He should be climbing the rope. But he’s afraid. He’s never been afraid before, but now he’s terrified. What if he tries again, and fails? What if he climbs and falls even further?

But in the end, even his fear is not enough to stop him. He needs to climb, more than he needs to breathe or eat or sleep. He walks back to the rope, gazes up, takes a deep breath.

And climbs.

It’s different this time—he's not as enthusiastic as he once was, but he’s not as naïve, either. He remembers the parts where he struggled last time; remembers how he pushed himself too hard and gave up. He tries a more measured approach, taking longer breaks, pausing to eat and drink.

But climbing is hard, especially when you’re a prince. His grip slips one day, and he falls a few feet—catching himself on a nearby ledge at the last minute. He jumps to his feet and dashes for the rope, but in his fervor he forgets his earlier measured approach. He scrambles upwards, desperately trying to regain the ground he lost, but his muscles are sore and his hands slick with sweat.

He falls, and falls hard.

What follows next is as familiar as it is soul-crushing. The anger settles in; the despair, the fear. He rages at his situation—resolves to just give up. And finds that he cannot. He attempts the climb, again and again and again, sometimes climbing further, other times barely making it more than a few feet.

In the end, he always falls.

Until one time, he falls harder and farther than ever before. Far enough that, for a moment, he feels suspended in space, wondering if he’ll finally reach the bottom of this pit.

After he falls, after he recovers, after he gets back to his feet, he’s consumed by a rage he’s never felt before. He lunges for the rope, grabbing a sharp rock on the way. And, with a roar, he starts cutting. He slashes at that rope, again and again and again, until the rope is in shreds around him, as ruined as his chances of ever escaping.

Then he slumps back, satisfaction and pain and grief warring inside him, and, for the first time, accepts his fate.

He may have once been a prince. He may once have lived free. But no longer.

He’s never leaving this pit.

There’s not much to say about the days that follow. The once-prince explores the area he’s fallen to, discovering that there are endless chambers and countless rooms to explore. They’re filled with curiosities, marvels and wonders of their own, but they mean nothing to him. He knew the outside world once—what interest do the secrets of a pit hold for him?

Time passes in a meaningless drudge. Another cave explored, another cavern passed through. And slowly, as he walks, the need he thought he’d buried kindles again.

He is a prince. He doesn’t belong in this pit.

He needs to find a way out.

And so he returns to the place he fell, scans the floor for the tattered remnants of his rope. He finds a piece of the cord, a second, a third, starts tying them together. It’s hard work—searching for the scraps, tying them together, searching again. He tries to stay excited through the process, but there are times he can’t keep the despair at bay.

And, during one of his darker moments, as he scans the cave floor dejectedly for the next scrap of rope, a thought occurs to him:

It’s dark in this pit.

How is he finding the scraps of rope?

He lifts his head up, slowly, his neck and spine creaking in protest—has it been so long, he wonders, since I last looked up? He's not certain himself what he expects to see. It’s night out there, the dark thick and absolute, and for a moment it’s hard to tell where the pit ends and the world outside begins.

And then he sees it: a flicker of motion, so small, so subtle, he could almost believe he’d imagined it.

There’s a flashlight at the lip of the cave, shining all the way down to where he stands.

And though he cannot see anything beyond that flashlight, he knows with absolute certainty Who’s holding it.

He stares up, mouth dry, the pit around him forgotten. His mouth feels suddenly full of questions, and it’s all he can do not to scream them out. “Father!” he yearns to scream, “Why have you abandoned me? When will you take me back?”

But he swallows those screams, because he knows that at this distance any words would get lost long before they reach the end of the pit. And because they’re not the question he really wants to ask. The question that eats at him; the question that keeps his back bent and his head fixed down.

So instead, he stares up at his unseen Father and silently wills Him to hear the question he can’t hold back any longer.

Why? He asks silently, a single tear slipping from his eye. Why haven’t You left? Why do You still hold out hope for me? Whatever it is You want from me, I’ve failed, again and again and again. I turned my back on You. I cut the only rope that still connected us. What do You see in me that I don’t?

And it’s strange, but even though he doesn’t utter a single word, the question seems to hang in the air between them, somehow tangible, somehow real.

There is a moment of silence; two. And then the flashlight moves, very slightly, to the side.

And turning, the prince sees where it’s shining.

On the next scrap of rope.

He studies it for a moment, lets a wry smile quirk his lips.

Then he reaches down, picks up that scrap, and ties.

by Eli Landes