Women's Focus Ministries: Friday Writings,,,,,,4/8/15

Good Morning...

The main writing today is called, "NOT THE ACT, BUT THE RESPONSE"

The story is illustrating the fact that how you respond to a challenge makes a all the difference.

Have a good day!

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Names of God

Alpha and Omega
Ancient of Days...Anointed One
Beginning and the Ending...Begotten
Beloved...Son of God...Bread of Life
Bridegroom...Bright and Morning Star
Chief Cornerstone...Christ Lamb Of God...Comforter Creator...Deliverer...Emmanuel...Endless ...Eternal God...Son of Man

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Written by a Member of our Monthly Writing Staff

Not The Act, But The Response

By Catherine Craig

“No!” I shriek, as he slams his open-fisted hand – again and again – down on my throbbing rump. Eyes wide with shock, both hands clamped over her ears, my daughter watches while I struggle. “You bas----!” I scream, hating him, then crawl off his lap, numb, while David acts as if nothing has happened. Smug.

Today, recalling my little girl’s crumpled face, her curls damp with tears, I can't feel. David’s no longer here; I am no longer terrified. But still, part of me is afraid to feel.

When I pray, it’s lip service; my heart feels dead. Am I lying when I say I love God if I can’t feel the love I say I have for him? Does he understand?

Sometimes, something lodged deep inside, like a thorn, or sliver, something very small, surfaces. That’s when I feel, and I don’t like those feelings.

Today, with my devotional before me, and my Bible open, I sit – feeling as empty as my apartment. The kids are gone to their father’s fancy house for their first court-ordered visit, while I struggle, raising our kids.

“Why God?” I ask, the anger welling. “Why! Why! Why!” Smashing my closed fist against the table is satisfying, though my cat’s golden eyes widen with fear. Her silky fur stands on end, almost spiky, and with each blow, she retreats further, but I can’t stop.

“Where were you? Were you asleep?” I cry, my voice building. “Didn’t you care? Did you lie when you said you would protect me?” The voice coming from me isn’t mine; it’s tinged with sarcasm. “You promised! You said….” I cry, slipping from the chair to my knees into a crumpled ball with my forehead pressed against the floor, sobbing. “Where were you, Lord? Where are you, Lord?” I beg, over and over again. “I need you!” Then, exhausted, I curl in on myself in a fetal position, as a caterpillar might by trying to protect itself – tears spilling from my eyes in the silence and pooling onto the bare floor.

Later, much later, I unfurl my cramped body. Wearily, I roll over, and onto my hands and knees, resting briefly. Then I pull myself up first with the chair, and then with the table, to stand, and then fall into the very chair I’d started from – staring at my Bible. Frustrated with peering at swimming letters through eyelashes stuck-together from crying, I treat myself to a warm wet washcloth to wash off the residue.

Relief over the absence of rage fills me as I sit back down, tracing with my finger, reading aloud the words, “For your Maker is your Husband – the Lord Almighty is His Name…” My husband? I wonder. After pondering, I flip to another passage I’d marked with a highlighter.

Certain words stand out as I read, “…it is commendable before God if a man (or woman) bears up under the pain of unjust suffering…to this you were called, because Jesus suffered for you, leaving an example for you to follow in his steps…”

“That makes sense,” I said, and turn to another passage that reads, “…so do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded.” A sense of calm, of peace, fills me as perspective returns. Feeling the corners of my mouth tip up into a smile, I continue reading, “You need to persevere, so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised.”

“That’s right,” I muse, looking up to stare through the window at the brilliantly lit frozen landscape. “Beauty for ashes,” I reflect, recalling past trials I’d suffered and victoriously come through. I read on, “He who is coming, will come, and not delay.”

I close the Bible with a decided thump, and standing up, stretch. Striding across the cold floor to slip my bare feet into a pair of warm furry boots, I exchange my drab gray scarf with a bright red one, and pull on my jacket. Grabbing the sheaf of papers from the counter, filled out but ignored until that moment, I glimpse the words, “Volunteer for Local Woman’s Shelter Application”.

Pausing with my hand on the doorknob, I freeze, but then, shaking my head, I yank open the door. A moist mist rises from my lips with the words I speak into the cold crisp morning, finishing my earlier prayer. “Use me. Use me, Lord – for Your Glory. Amen…”