Sunday, January 4, 2015

First Sunday of the Year

I slipped into church, late again. This past year, as the afternoon turn takes over my body and mental status, I find getting to church, early or on time, harder and harder. Some Sundays, like one where I slept till two in the afternoon, I don't make it, at all. I'd love to just blame it on my job, but it is more than that. I do love the peace of being in God's word on His day and every day. I rebel at the idea of getting ready at times.
Yet, I am rewarded each time I make it to church. The songs lift me. I walk to my seat, late, singing as I immediately feel worship. We have a great worship team. The sermon powerfully teaches me or touches me. Or like today, it was all that and someone that I don't often talk to, telling me they like my posts.
I am reading a book that is self published. It evokes sadness in me on many levels. First, as a memoir of a WWII POW, the intensity touches me. Second, the War(growing up it was the only War, it seemed)story reminds me of my parents, as the main character is in the Army Air Corps, like my father and David's father, and his brothers. Leon was in England like Irwin. I cry because their stories are lost with their absence, either in death or in their memory, like Dad Lyon's. Third, because the printing quality and the pictures are sub par. A story this powerful deserved editing and finer printing. Steven Spielberg did like the story, and I can see why.
http://www.amazon.com/EXTRAORDINARY-LIFE-Gone-Dogs-Written-ebook/dp/B00IHA1D4W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1420414229&sr=8-1&keywords=an+extraordinary+life-gone+to+the+dogs
Irwin and Chase
  I met the author and the man who told her the story, at my first book signing in Poland, Ohio. Their words of the story are in a clay vessel. All our words are in clay vessels, that God will use. The last few days, my writing and what it means, I weighed in the balance. Some days, even when I have time, I write not. I used to write every day. Some thoughts run deep and dark and even though I desire to write, I can't. I can't bear to place them on paper. The accusing thoughts of it doesn't make a difference lies to me. I surrender to obscurity. I don't feel I can do all the research for the books I want to write. I give in to the lie of the pauper spirit in the extreme dark dreary rainy(any other adjectives for my horrible weather?) day. Yes, I could have gone on with the nastiness of yesterday, but I think just adding nasty is enough.
 I was reminded this morning that we are all only clay vessels. I have felt the pushing down of my clay under the Potter's hand. And this morning, the Hand reached me and pulled my clay up. He reminded me this past week that is was I, who was asked questions about salvation out of the blue. I answered according to the book of Romans in a way He wanted me. I'm sure of that. The lady hardly knows me, yet, she put forth the question of Gandhi being in Heaven. I didn't take offense, but answered that still we need Jesus or otherwise, He didn't need to come to Earth. How God sees hearts on death's door is up to Him. I know Jesus is the only way to the Father, He said it, not me. No one can make it on their own. People who take Jesus name, often don't live like we think they should. Gandhi rejected the followers, not Jesus. The sermon's title today, "Not Ashamed of the Gospel," must be my way of life. My words may be in clay vessels but they must serve Jesus, too.
On this first Sunday of the new year, I rest, but don't sulk, like I did yesterday. I am renewed with my writing, my ideas and life. I do covet my readers' prayers again. As I hone my craft, to not be  a hobby, as one close to me says, but for the transformation of my words in clay vessels to be used by God. And as such my life as well.
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