It started when I got out of class. My professor, who usually holds us 15 minutes over time (the "good to the last drop" philosophy, I suppose), let us out FIVE MINUTES early, for a net gain of 20 minutes! I packed up my pens (one blue, one purple), bagged up my notes, and joined the stream of students pouring out of the auditorium.
Stepping outside was a pleasant surprise. The morning's close dampness had entirely disappeared, and the air felt clean and fresh and about 10 degrees cooler than I had expected. I took a deep breath and started whistling.
As I walked through the park I noticed the leaves. The sugar maples overhanging the path were still green; like ladies pulling out gray hairs, the trees had dropped the early signs of autumn and the brick sidewalk was strewn with crimson-edged leaves. I stopped to take a picture for my cell phone wall paper.
My car was waiting faithfully for me in the parking garage, and there was no traffic as I pulled out onto the road. The light was green! I made it through. I rolled down my windows, relishing the cool, dry air after such a long and hot summer.
The next light caught me, but, just to make up for the wait, a peppy, bouncy song came on the radio. I turned up the volume.
The timing for the last light was perfect; it was too warm in my car to wear my sweater, but there were just enough cars ahead of me at the red light, waiting to turn right, that I was able to wriggle out of my cardigan before it was my turn to go.
When I got out on the highway it was wide open. No cars in sight. Cotton-batting clouds covered the sky, with just enough sunlight peeping through to turn the edges golden. My hair blew in the breeze. I was still singing along with the radio. I was thinking about not having class tomorrow, being a little ahead on my assignments, and forgetting (temporarily) about the midterm exam I had been worried about.
It was a Very Happy Moment.
When I came onto the interstate, the friendly cars scooted over to make room for me. We all drove together, moving in and out almost like a choreographed dance routine where some came on, some went off, but all kept moving.
"And I think to myself....what a wonderful world...."
I parked in the best parking place at the apartment, right next to the sidewalk. I walked into our nice new apartment, still pretty tidy from The Great Cleanup that took place last Saturday. Dinner's in the fridge, ready to be re-heated, the dishes are done for today, and I can have the evening off to spend time with my Scott when he gets home.
It's still a Very Happy Moment.
When I think about it, I could have more Very Happy Moments if I looked for them. Today there were so many Happy things I couldn't ignore them; how many do I miss on other days?
Let's look for Very Happy Moments... we might find them more often than we think.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Rachel VS The Evil Machine
Okay, Scott, I know you went to Mexico just to get out of mowing the lawn. But beware: next time, I shall be as wise as a serpent and pack your suitcase while you're still at work so when you get home you have time to mow the yard before you leave.
No, I guess my husband didn't flee the country to shirk lawn duty. But I felt like doing that very thing this afternoon as I grunted and hauled The Evil Machine around the yard. Mowing the yard is, of course, my third favorite outdoor activity. The first two are climbing razor wire fences and crawling over freshly broken glass.
All day long it haunted me; I knew I'd have to mow the yard when I got home. It's needed trimming for a couple of weeks, but what with a busy schedule and rainy days off, I have managed to procrastinate to this point. But as I drove to work this morning, I noted the dawn, bright and clear, and knew that the day had come.
But before I could get to the yard, I needed to get through my day at work. I had a pretty easy day of it, if you don't count the sore knees from standing so long. I was observing ortho (joint) surgeries today as part of my work orientation at the hospital. I think they require it for two reasons: 1.) to help the new graduate (me) better understand the processes that bring patients from the holding room, through the Operating Room to the PACU (recovery room, and finally, to the ortho wing of the hospital where I will be working. 2.) To help the new graduate (me) to see the gritty violence of joint surgeries so as to be more compassionate when the patients ask for pain medicine when I take care of them upstairs. I think my observations helped achieve both purposes. I watched a shoulder surgery and a bilateral knee replacement. Boy, that's rough stuff. I'm very thankful for Crawford Long and the other doctors who fought to popularize the use of anesthesia: there would be no elective (optional) surgeries without it, and I wouldn't have a job. The patient didn't feel anything, but it was amazing to see the doctor and his electric drills and saws and non-electric hammers and pegs. It's amazing to think that by undergoing this operation, a patient can be saved from crippling joint problems and go on to lead an active lifestyle again!
The OR people were really nice; it was the first surgery observation I did where the staff were so helpful. They explained things, and when my knees were getting sore from standing in one place so long, the nurse brought a chair in from the other room; I didn't even have to ask. And the CRNA (anesthesia guy) noticed that I was cold sitting there, and brought a blanket from the warmer for me! It was greatly appreciated, since street clothes like jackets aren't allowed in the OR. (and they keep it cold in there. Where do you think those "save the polar bears" people keep all those polar bears? And I could have sworn I saw a penguin on an ice floe...)
After watching the BTKA (knee surgery), I followed the patient to PACU to see what happens there (not much, today at least!). I got to sit down there, the whole time. Then it was time to go.
I delayed as much as possible. I got home, checked my e-mails, checked facebook, and exercised on our elliptical machine. I entered my day's exercise in the log book I've started to keep, then sighed. I couldn't wait any longer. Time to mow the yard.
I headed out the front door and was surprised to see a police car idling at the end of the driveway. I picked up a few sticks in the little grass patch in the front yard, then bent over to get a big stick out of the driveway.
WOOF!!! WOOF! WOOF!!! The flashing white teeth of a German Shepherd greeted me.
After I landed back inside my skin, I noticed the cooling unit that should have clued me in that it was a k-9 police car. Oh well. Thankfully there were only 30 people outside their houses to see the police happenings, so it's not like anyone could have seen me.
I trudged up the hill to get our lawnmower from where it is stored at a neighbor's house. The first thing I noticed was the noise: one of the wheels was making a horrible, rapid clicking noise. I couldn't tell why. So I just kept going.
I was half afraid I'd get arrested for stealing the lawnmower as I made my way down the street, past all those cop cars and the ambulance, but nothing happened. I was ready for the dog to bark at me this time. He did.
The right front wheel still wouldn't move; it was like there was a brake keeping it from rolling, but I couldn't figure out how to fix it. Then I couldn't get the mower to start. After permanently damaging a few tendons and possibly my entire rotator cuff, I had succeeded only in increasing the volume of my grunts as I attempted to start The Evil Machine. I sat back and thought. I had used it before, I reasoned, with no trouble starting it. So I went through the motions again. And again. And again. I think The Evil Machine sensed that I was about to give up, because on my "one last try," it purred to life like a malevolent beast. I thought I had won, but little did I know that The Evil Machine was only biding its time.
Mowing our yard should not be a big deal. It is a small yard, smaller than any other I've had. But the house is on a hill, so two sides of the yard are slanted. To make matters worse, there is a ditch (that has to be mowed) at the bottom of the yard. And the weeds were so tall and thick that the San Diego Zoo asked if they could use it as a model for their latest rain forest exhibit. (I told them no; I didn't want them to scare away the badak tampongs). Well. If trying to push The Evil Machine up a hill weren't bad enough, I had to force the beast (which weighs more than a third of my weight!!) up the hill, with one of the front wheels locked. The whole time. After repeating this twice, I got smart and started pulling the lawnmower behind me instead of pushing it. This worked well till we hit a big patch of weeds and the mower stalled. I took it back to level ground and started it again, continuing on my merry way, pushing The Evil Machine down hill and dragging it up behind me again.
Then it died. And I couldn't start it again.
I turned it over on its ill-natured back. I heard it glug-glug-glugging in protest. I refused to listen to its pleas, and I found the source of one problem. There was a clump of grass stuck in the bottom of the mower. Only one. But it covered the whole bottom of the mower, miring the blades in fresh and not-so-fresh grass clippings. The hole that's supposed to allow the clipping to pass out was stuffed full. So I spent a few minutes digging to free the mower blades,hurling the gigantic clumps over to the fence. It would have been easier to throw them in the neighbor's yard, but I didn't.
I thought that with the indigestion problem solved, The Evil Machine would renounce its former ways and reform. It didn't.
After grunting, shoving, dragging, and heaving that mower all over the backyard, it was finally finished. On to the front.
The front yard is about the size of a large bathroom. It would be easy to mow except for the aforementioned hill, which is even steeper in the front, and a giant poplar tree (liriodendron tulipifera) whose roots stand a significant obstacle to even the most kindly and obliging of lawnmowers that have 4 rolling wheels. So in stark contrast to the recommended and professional way of mowing, with long, smooth rows, I hacked at the grass with The Evil Machine, going back and forth and back and forth. The police cars were leaving now, going down to the end of the road to a wide place to turn around. The ambulance, however, lingered, no doubt sure that I would need their services after The Evil Machine turned on me and chewed my leg for a while.
I kept a tight rein on the beast, however, and the ambulance was able to leave empty-handed.
Then I had to push the thing back up the road to the neighbor's house. The wheel started working again, just to show me there was nothing really wrong with it and it had been uncooperative out of pure spite. I could have sworn the thing was laughing as I finally took it back to its bed. I had to tuck it in, pulling its plywood blanket back over its head, but I refused to kiss it goodnight.
So now it's over, for another week anyway. I wonder how much a self-propelled mower would cost. Oh, I have an even better idea.
A SCOTT-propelled mower.
No, I guess my husband didn't flee the country to shirk lawn duty. But I felt like doing that very thing this afternoon as I grunted and hauled The Evil Machine around the yard. Mowing the yard is, of course, my third favorite outdoor activity. The first two are climbing razor wire fences and crawling over freshly broken glass.
All day long it haunted me; I knew I'd have to mow the yard when I got home. It's needed trimming for a couple of weeks, but what with a busy schedule and rainy days off, I have managed to procrastinate to this point. But as I drove to work this morning, I noted the dawn, bright and clear, and knew that the day had come.
But before I could get to the yard, I needed to get through my day at work. I had a pretty easy day of it, if you don't count the sore knees from standing so long. I was observing ortho (joint) surgeries today as part of my work orientation at the hospital. I think they require it for two reasons: 1.) to help the new graduate (me) better understand the processes that bring patients from the holding room, through the Operating Room to the PACU (recovery room, and finally, to the ortho wing of the hospital where I will be working. 2.) To help the new graduate (me) to see the gritty violence of joint surgeries so as to be more compassionate when the patients ask for pain medicine when I take care of them upstairs. I think my observations helped achieve both purposes. I watched a shoulder surgery and a bilateral knee replacement. Boy, that's rough stuff. I'm very thankful for Crawford Long and the other doctors who fought to popularize the use of anesthesia: there would be no elective (optional) surgeries without it, and I wouldn't have a job. The patient didn't feel anything, but it was amazing to see the doctor and his electric drills and saws and non-electric hammers and pegs. It's amazing to think that by undergoing this operation, a patient can be saved from crippling joint problems and go on to lead an active lifestyle again!
The OR people were really nice; it was the first surgery observation I did where the staff were so helpful. They explained things, and when my knees were getting sore from standing in one place so long, the nurse brought a chair in from the other room; I didn't even have to ask. And the CRNA (anesthesia guy) noticed that I was cold sitting there, and brought a blanket from the warmer for me! It was greatly appreciated, since street clothes like jackets aren't allowed in the OR. (and they keep it cold in there. Where do you think those "save the polar bears" people keep all those polar bears? And I could have sworn I saw a penguin on an ice floe...)
After watching the BTKA (knee surgery), I followed the patient to PACU to see what happens there (not much, today at least!). I got to sit down there, the whole time. Then it was time to go.
I delayed as much as possible. I got home, checked my e-mails, checked facebook, and exercised on our elliptical machine. I entered my day's exercise in the log book I've started to keep, then sighed. I couldn't wait any longer. Time to mow the yard.
I headed out the front door and was surprised to see a police car idling at the end of the driveway. I picked up a few sticks in the little grass patch in the front yard, then bent over to get a big stick out of the driveway.
WOOF!!! WOOF! WOOF!!! The flashing white teeth of a German Shepherd greeted me.
After I landed back inside my skin, I noticed the cooling unit that should have clued me in that it was a k-9 police car. Oh well. Thankfully there were only 30 people outside their houses to see the police happenings, so it's not like anyone could have seen me.
I trudged up the hill to get our lawnmower from where it is stored at a neighbor's house. The first thing I noticed was the noise: one of the wheels was making a horrible, rapid clicking noise. I couldn't tell why. So I just kept going.
I was half afraid I'd get arrested for stealing the lawnmower as I made my way down the street, past all those cop cars and the ambulance, but nothing happened. I was ready for the dog to bark at me this time. He did.
The right front wheel still wouldn't move; it was like there was a brake keeping it from rolling, but I couldn't figure out how to fix it. Then I couldn't get the mower to start. After permanently damaging a few tendons and possibly my entire rotator cuff, I had succeeded only in increasing the volume of my grunts as I attempted to start The Evil Machine. I sat back and thought. I had used it before, I reasoned, with no trouble starting it. So I went through the motions again. And again. And again. I think The Evil Machine sensed that I was about to give up, because on my "one last try," it purred to life like a malevolent beast. I thought I had won, but little did I know that The Evil Machine was only biding its time.
Mowing our yard should not be a big deal. It is a small yard, smaller than any other I've had. But the house is on a hill, so two sides of the yard are slanted. To make matters worse, there is a ditch (that has to be mowed) at the bottom of the yard. And the weeds were so tall and thick that the San Diego Zoo asked if they could use it as a model for their latest rain forest exhibit. (I told them no; I didn't want them to scare away the badak tampongs). Well. If trying to push The Evil Machine up a hill weren't bad enough, I had to force the beast (which weighs more than a third of my weight!!) up the hill, with one of the front wheels locked. The whole time. After repeating this twice, I got smart and started pulling the lawnmower behind me instead of pushing it. This worked well till we hit a big patch of weeds and the mower stalled. I took it back to level ground and started it again, continuing on my merry way, pushing The Evil Machine down hill and dragging it up behind me again.
Then it died. And I couldn't start it again.
I turned it over on its ill-natured back. I heard it glug-glug-glugging in protest. I refused to listen to its pleas, and I found the source of one problem. There was a clump of grass stuck in the bottom of the mower. Only one. But it covered the whole bottom of the mower, miring the blades in fresh and not-so-fresh grass clippings. The hole that's supposed to allow the clipping to pass out was stuffed full. So I spent a few minutes digging to free the mower blades,hurling the gigantic clumps over to the fence. It would have been easier to throw them in the neighbor's yard, but I didn't.
I thought that with the indigestion problem solved, The Evil Machine would renounce its former ways and reform. It didn't.
After grunting, shoving, dragging, and heaving that mower all over the backyard, it was finally finished. On to the front.
The front yard is about the size of a large bathroom. It would be easy to mow except for the aforementioned hill, which is even steeper in the front, and a giant poplar tree (liriodendron tulipifera) whose roots stand a significant obstacle to even the most kindly and obliging of lawnmowers that have 4 rolling wheels. So in stark contrast to the recommended and professional way of mowing, with long, smooth rows, I hacked at the grass with The Evil Machine, going back and forth and back and forth. The police cars were leaving now, going down to the end of the road to a wide place to turn around. The ambulance, however, lingered, no doubt sure that I would need their services after The Evil Machine turned on me and chewed my leg for a while.
I kept a tight rein on the beast, however, and the ambulance was able to leave empty-handed.
Then I had to push the thing back up the road to the neighbor's house. The wheel started working again, just to show me there was nothing really wrong with it and it had been uncooperative out of pure spite. I could have sworn the thing was laughing as I finally took it back to its bed. I had to tuck it in, pulling its plywood blanket back over its head, but I refused to kiss it goodnight.
So now it's over, for another week anyway. I wonder how much a self-propelled mower would cost. Oh, I have an even better idea.
A SCOTT-propelled mower.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
On the mountain of the Lord it will be provided
I decided to take up my chronological read-through-the-Bible-in-a-year book again. Cover to Cover is a good guide to go through all 66 books in the order the events unfold. When I was on Logos II the first time we all went through it, and I learned even through books like Leviticus and Chronicles (they're all there for a reason!).
I was reading Genesis 22 a couple of days ago, where God called Abraham to sacrifice his son. Not just to give him up or send him away, but to burn him as an offering. God didn't even tell Abraham where to go; he only said, "on one of the mountains, which I will show you." Wow.
Abraham took his servants and his son and set off on the journey, not knowing how long it would take, or what kind of terrain they would have to cross. God did show him the mountain. Abraham laid his son on the altar. And God stepped in, stopped the sacrifice, and provided a ram to sacrifice instead.
There were several things that interested me in the story; first, the importance of setting an example of individual worship for your children.
Isaac knew from watching his father through the years what was required for worship: the fire and knife, wood, and a lamb for sacrifice. He saw his father had the first two elements, he had the third, but the lamb was missing, so he asked Abraham, who famously replied, "God will provide himself a lamb..."
Growing up, I saw my father's worship every day. He would get up early, do some calisthenics, then settle down at the table with his Bible. He would pray for what seemed like forever to my childish eyes, then he'd open up the Scriptures while he ate breakfast. Every day. He got up early to worship every day. His godly example was pressed on my mind from an early age, just as Abraham's worship influenced his son Isaac. It is important to cultivate that individual relationship of worship with God because the next generation is not going to just take our word for it; they have to see us consistently live out our worship through the months and years.
The other thing I noticed was that God didn't just have a general mountain that everyone knew was the place to worship, and you'd go and give whatever you wanted to God. No. God had in mind a specific journey to that one altar and a specific command of sacrifice: "Take your son, your only son—yes, Isaac, whom you love so much...Go and sacrifice him as a burnt offering."
God does the same thing today.
In the church, we talk a lot.
"Give up your life to the Lord."
"Just surrender everything."
"Come and lay it all on the altar."
They can be as comforting as they are challenging, as long as we keep them in generalities. "Oh, yes, take it all, Lord."
But then, if we really listen to Him, He has this habit of making it uncomfortably personal. And specific. He says, "I don't just want your general 'everything.' I want that one place, that specific desire, that you're holding back. You're using the phrase, 'I'm giving it all' as a screen to keep from seeing that there is a place where you don't want me; to keep me from getting too close and invading that area of your life. I want you to be my friend, as Abraham was my friend, but first you have to come to that mountain, the one I will show you, and give up what you love."
But God didn't show Abraham the mountain from where he was camped. Abraham had to commit to the journey. He had to step out and begin, showing his commitment by leaving his home. And I think it's the same way for us. We have to set out by actively seeking God, spending time listening, probing our hearts for the direction that God might want to take us, seeing strongholds and asking, "Is this the mountain?"
After God provided a ram to sacrifice, it became a proverb in the land, "On the mountain of the Lord it will be provided." And God still promises us his provision: Grace, mercy, strength in time of need. But it will not be provided until we come to the mountain, prepared to sacrifice.
So, these have been my thoughts. I wanted to write a song about it, but it didn't work. It ended up being a poem, and a rather long poem at that. And it didn't use the phrase I liked and wanted to use, so it will just be the title, the same as the title for this blog.
~~~~
The word of God came to Abraham
and cut him to the heart.
"Bring your son, your only son,
to the place I've set apart.
Bring him to my mountain,
the one I'll show to you.
There burn him as an offering."
Could this command be true?
At the mountain they left their servants
and the two went on alone.
Abram's heart was as heavy
as the altar made of stone.
Isaac's question broke the silence
he saw the wood, fire, and knife...
But he didn't know the sacrifice
was to give up his own life.
At the mountain's top they laid aside
the burdens they had brought,
and Abraham told his son
the commandment of their God.
The tears rolled down his cheeks unchecked
as he tied up his dear boy
He placed him on the altar there,
his whole life's pride and joy.
He raised the knife, poised to strike,
but the angel stayed his hand,
And God's friend Abraham received
his son, as though from the dead.
Their spirits soared as they rejoiced
when a sound turned Abraham's head:
He looked up--there on the mountain,
God provided himself a lamb.
On another mountain, Calvary,
God gave another Lamb,
And salvation full and free,
if I come just as I am
To the mountain that he shows to me
where I must take the knife
And kill the selfish part that tries
to order my own life.
I must lay on the altar
all I hold most dear:
My thoughts and dreams and passions,
hopes and plans and fears.
I must burn them on the mountain
and through the ashes see
That through God's Lamb is given grace
for all my deepest needs.
But though Abram left the mountain,
nevermore there to return,
I find each day so many things
to sacrifice, to burn.
But God calls from the mountain,
his voice pleads with my heart,
"Lay down the foolish pride and self
that's keeping us apart.
Come back now to the mountain,
you know I'll meet you here.
Come back and give yourself to me;
let my love cast out fear."
So I'm headed for the mountain
with my fire and knife
Knowing the way to be with God
is to let him have my life.
To give him every part of me
is what I long to do
I'm going to the mountain.
Now the question is: will you?
I was reading Genesis 22 a couple of days ago, where God called Abraham to sacrifice his son. Not just to give him up or send him away, but to burn him as an offering. God didn't even tell Abraham where to go; he only said, "on one of the mountains, which I will show you." Wow.
Abraham took his servants and his son and set off on the journey, not knowing how long it would take, or what kind of terrain they would have to cross. God did show him the mountain. Abraham laid his son on the altar. And God stepped in, stopped the sacrifice, and provided a ram to sacrifice instead.
There were several things that interested me in the story; first, the importance of setting an example of individual worship for your children.
Isaac knew from watching his father through the years what was required for worship: the fire and knife, wood, and a lamb for sacrifice. He saw his father had the first two elements, he had the third, but the lamb was missing, so he asked Abraham, who famously replied, "God will provide himself a lamb..."
Growing up, I saw my father's worship every day. He would get up early, do some calisthenics, then settle down at the table with his Bible. He would pray for what seemed like forever to my childish eyes, then he'd open up the Scriptures while he ate breakfast. Every day. He got up early to worship every day. His godly example was pressed on my mind from an early age, just as Abraham's worship influenced his son Isaac. It is important to cultivate that individual relationship of worship with God because the next generation is not going to just take our word for it; they have to see us consistently live out our worship through the months and years.
The other thing I noticed was that God didn't just have a general mountain that everyone knew was the place to worship, and you'd go and give whatever you wanted to God. No. God had in mind a specific journey to that one altar and a specific command of sacrifice: "Take your son, your only son—yes, Isaac, whom you love so much...Go and sacrifice him as a burnt offering."
God does the same thing today.
In the church, we talk a lot.
"Give up your life to the Lord."
"Just surrender everything."
"Come and lay it all on the altar."
They can be as comforting as they are challenging, as long as we keep them in generalities. "Oh, yes, take it all, Lord."
But then, if we really listen to Him, He has this habit of making it uncomfortably personal. And specific. He says, "I don't just want your general 'everything.' I want that one place, that specific desire, that you're holding back. You're using the phrase, 'I'm giving it all' as a screen to keep from seeing that there is a place where you don't want me; to keep me from getting too close and invading that area of your life. I want you to be my friend, as Abraham was my friend, but first you have to come to that mountain, the one I will show you, and give up what you love."
But God didn't show Abraham the mountain from where he was camped. Abraham had to commit to the journey. He had to step out and begin, showing his commitment by leaving his home. And I think it's the same way for us. We have to set out by actively seeking God, spending time listening, probing our hearts for the direction that God might want to take us, seeing strongholds and asking, "Is this the mountain?"
After God provided a ram to sacrifice, it became a proverb in the land, "On the mountain of the Lord it will be provided." And God still promises us his provision: Grace, mercy, strength in time of need. But it will not be provided until we come to the mountain, prepared to sacrifice.
So, these have been my thoughts. I wanted to write a song about it, but it didn't work. It ended up being a poem, and a rather long poem at that. And it didn't use the phrase I liked and wanted to use, so it will just be the title, the same as the title for this blog.
~~~~
The word of God came to Abraham
and cut him to the heart.
"Bring your son, your only son,
to the place I've set apart.
Bring him to my mountain,
the one I'll show to you.
There burn him as an offering."
Could this command be true?
At the mountain they left their servants
and the two went on alone.
Abram's heart was as heavy
as the altar made of stone.
Isaac's question broke the silence
he saw the wood, fire, and knife...
But he didn't know the sacrifice
was to give up his own life.
At the mountain's top they laid aside
the burdens they had brought,
and Abraham told his son
the commandment of their God.
The tears rolled down his cheeks unchecked
as he tied up his dear boy
He placed him on the altar there,
his whole life's pride and joy.
He raised the knife, poised to strike,
but the angel stayed his hand,
And God's friend Abraham received
his son, as though from the dead.
Their spirits soared as they rejoiced
when a sound turned Abraham's head:
He looked up--there on the mountain,
God provided himself a lamb.
On another mountain, Calvary,
God gave another Lamb,
And salvation full and free,
if I come just as I am
To the mountain that he shows to me
where I must take the knife
And kill the selfish part that tries
to order my own life.
I must lay on the altar
all I hold most dear:
My thoughts and dreams and passions,
hopes and plans and fears.
I must burn them on the mountain
and through the ashes see
That through God's Lamb is given grace
for all my deepest needs.
But though Abram left the mountain,
nevermore there to return,
I find each day so many things
to sacrifice, to burn.
But God calls from the mountain,
his voice pleads with my heart,
"Lay down the foolish pride and self
that's keeping us apart.
Come back now to the mountain,
you know I'll meet you here.
Come back and give yourself to me;
let my love cast out fear."
So I'm headed for the mountain
with my fire and knife
Knowing the way to be with God
is to let him have my life.
To give him every part of me
is what I long to do
I'm going to the mountain.
Now the question is: will you?
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Night Before Christmas (Un-poem)
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through God's house...
...was hustle and bustle.
As the fire of sunset burned in the west, the bleating of sheep and cooing of doves echoed among the cold stone pillars. The moneylenders, after a hard day's cheating, waited patiently with cash in hand for the pharisees to end their protracted and ebullient prayers long enough to receive their portion of the proceeds.
In a place not prominent, but hidden in shadows, a wizened man offered up an infinitely simpler prayer from the depths of his heart. The passage of years had dimmed his sight, but not his certainty, for he knew that God cannot lie.
"How long, oh Lord?" he whispered as he rocked back and forth, the intensity of his petition moving him body and soul. A tear of longing slid down his cheek as he remembered all who died without seeing the promise: Abraham "...all peoples on earth will be blessed through you;" Isaac; Jacob "...the scepter will not depart from Judah, nor the ruler's staff from between his feet, until Shiloh comes." Even Isaiah, who had so described his coming, had died without seeing the Messiah.
As he settled his aching bones on the unforgiving stone floor, Simeon's heart cried out. Messiah had been promised, but Simeon had a special promise from the Lord: he would not die until he saw Emmanuel.
Meanwhile, in the court of women, Anna the Prophetess prepared for another night in the temple. The crowd swirled around her, going home to waiting families and welcoming hearth fires. But still she stayed, as she had for so many years of her widowhood. God had become her family, her warmth, her comfort, and her ever-living joy. She praised Him for the promise that He would rescue Jerusalem, freeing the captives from their bondage, healing the blind and lame, and bringing the hearts of men back to the Lord.
Just weeks later, those who waited and watched for Messiah in the Temple were rewarded. Simeon rejoiced, saying,
"Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel."
Anna was quick to add her praise and tell everyone else who searched for Messiah that He had come at last.
We didn't have to wait. This all happened so long ago that we take it for granted. We forget that millenia passed when people longed for God's friendship; when the people of Israel quaked before the mountain of fire that shook and smoked with His power. They delivered their animals for slaughter day after day and year after year, waiting. The prophets saw amazing visions, revelations of God's power and radiant majesty, but even they did not see the unveiling of the mystery.
Adam, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses and his parents, Rahab, Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel... the list in Hebrews is amazing. But what is more amazing is what follows: "These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised." (Hebrews 11:39)
After the centuries of restless waiting and watching, the Messiah came! He came and completed the work of redemption; he died and entered God's presence, presenting his blood as the perfect sacrifice that satisfied God's perfect justice; his death fulfilled the requirement. "The wages of sin is death," but he took all the payment. The way has been cleared for us to have a relationship with God! We can enter into His presence with joyful boldness, knowing that we will be accepted because of Christ. WE have received the promise!
What should we do with this knowledge? The author of Hebrews tells us quite plainly:
"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God."
This is a challenge to us. As we remember Christ's birth during this happy season, let this be the Christmas inspiration that lasts long past December: remember those who waited long for His coming and their challenge to run the race marked out for us.
...was hustle and bustle.
As the fire of sunset burned in the west, the bleating of sheep and cooing of doves echoed among the cold stone pillars. The moneylenders, after a hard day's cheating, waited patiently with cash in hand for the pharisees to end their protracted and ebullient prayers long enough to receive their portion of the proceeds.
In a place not prominent, but hidden in shadows, a wizened man offered up an infinitely simpler prayer from the depths of his heart. The passage of years had dimmed his sight, but not his certainty, for he knew that God cannot lie.
"How long, oh Lord?" he whispered as he rocked back and forth, the intensity of his petition moving him body and soul. A tear of longing slid down his cheek as he remembered all who died without seeing the promise: Abraham "...all peoples on earth will be blessed through you;" Isaac; Jacob "...the scepter will not depart from Judah, nor the ruler's staff from between his feet, until Shiloh comes." Even Isaiah, who had so described his coming, had died without seeing the Messiah.
As he settled his aching bones on the unforgiving stone floor, Simeon's heart cried out. Messiah had been promised, but Simeon had a special promise from the Lord: he would not die until he saw Emmanuel.
Meanwhile, in the court of women, Anna the Prophetess prepared for another night in the temple. The crowd swirled around her, going home to waiting families and welcoming hearth fires. But still she stayed, as she had for so many years of her widowhood. God had become her family, her warmth, her comfort, and her ever-living joy. She praised Him for the promise that He would rescue Jerusalem, freeing the captives from their bondage, healing the blind and lame, and bringing the hearts of men back to the Lord.
Just weeks later, those who waited and watched for Messiah in the Temple were rewarded. Simeon rejoiced, saying,
"Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel."
Anna was quick to add her praise and tell everyone else who searched for Messiah that He had come at last.
We didn't have to wait. This all happened so long ago that we take it for granted. We forget that millenia passed when people longed for God's friendship; when the people of Israel quaked before the mountain of fire that shook and smoked with His power. They delivered their animals for slaughter day after day and year after year, waiting. The prophets saw amazing visions, revelations of God's power and radiant majesty, but even they did not see the unveiling of the mystery.
Adam, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses and his parents, Rahab, Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel... the list in Hebrews is amazing. But what is more amazing is what follows: "These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised." (Hebrews 11:39)
After the centuries of restless waiting and watching, the Messiah came! He came and completed the work of redemption; he died and entered God's presence, presenting his blood as the perfect sacrifice that satisfied God's perfect justice; his death fulfilled the requirement. "The wages of sin is death," but he took all the payment. The way has been cleared for us to have a relationship with God! We can enter into His presence with joyful boldness, knowing that we will be accepted because of Christ. WE have received the promise!
What should we do with this knowledge? The author of Hebrews tells us quite plainly:
"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God."
This is a challenge to us. As we remember Christ's birth during this happy season, let this be the Christmas inspiration that lasts long past December: remember those who waited long for His coming and their challenge to run the race marked out for us.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Dulcinea vs. Aldonza
This is a long one, but bear with me. :-)
We watched a movie this afternoon. Made in 1972, Man of La Mancha chronicles the adventures of the famous Don Quixote in his quest as the last knight errant to rid the world of evil.
I can't recommend the movie, really; I had expected a light-hearted musical in the tradition of Easter Parade or In the Good Ol' Summertime. What I got instead was a philosophical debate with catchy tunes thrown in. The musical presents a contest between idealism and realism in the dark confines of the Inquisitors' dungeon, illustrated by Don Quixote's outrageous behavior.
The elderly gentleman is the hero of the story. Though he is mad, seeing giants and castles where there are only windmills and decrepit inns, he is the noble one who strives not only to be good, but to do good.
Don Quixote and his squire, Sancho, arrive at a grubby inn where a caravan of muleteers are doing their best to seduce the fiery scullery maid, Aldonza, who repeatedly slaps their hands away. She has been badly used and abused; her anger is visible in every word she says and move she makes. Hard and cynical, she sarcastically replies to their comments with the song, "It's All the Same," where she makes very clear she knows what the men want, but that it's only available for a price. All through the song she strides through the mob of scoundrels seated around the tables in the dirty inn courtyard, singing defiantly that once the price is paid she doesn't care who paid it, since men are all the same.
Then Don Quixote literally rides onto the scene. In his eyes, the gray, drab, dirty inn is a fine castle; the disreputable inn keeper is the noble lord and keeper of the fortress. After an undignified dismount from his horse and a brief word with the inn-keeper, Don Quixote suddenly stops, staring in awe.
"Dulcinea!" he exclaims.
He has caught sight of the bedraggled Aldonza, and his heart is lost forever.
He, of course, is convinced that she is a noblewoman, a pure and lovely treasure, blessed with all the fine graces befitting her exalted lineage. He insists that her name is Dulcinea, and sings her a gentle love song. At first she scoffs, then softens, then hardens her heart to the song that includes the words,
I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea,
And thy name is like a prayer
An angel whispers... Dulcinea... Dulcinea!
The next day, Don Quixote continues to woo his lady, Dulcinea. Aldonza is bewildered by his tender devotion, but hardens her heart toward him.
That night Aldonza is on her way to meet up with a paying customer when she sees Don Quixote, holding prayerful vigil in the courtyard as he prepares to be knighted the next day. She is curious, and she thinks she knows what he is really after. She stops to talk to him, expecting at any moment he will proposition her like every other man she has known. The conversation that followed brought tears to my eyes:
As we were watching that scene, a little thought popped into my head: I am Aldonza. We all are.
God cherishes us. He loves us with a deep, everlasting love that makes any love we know seem empty by comparison, just like in the story where Don Quixote's innocent, pure devotion is contrasted with the mule-driver's leering lust.
But we aren't ready to believe it; we don't really trust that God loves us that much. Like Aldonza, we're waiting for the axe to fall; He loves us this much because He wants something out of it. And every time something bad happens in our lives, we yell out, "Now we get to it!" He's just been playing with us in the good times to win us over and bring us hope so He can have the fun of smashing it.
But His heart is breaking! He really does love us, with no reservations, despite of who we are, despite what we've done, and despite how we will fail in the future. He sees us as His bride, pure and spotless, and everything that comes to us is part of His loving us. He doesn't have ulterior motives; what could we possibly give him? He is devoted to us; He has pledged himself to us, to be our defender, our rock, our knight in shining armor.
The last scene we see of Aldonza is after Don Quixote's death as she and Sancho grieve together. He calls her by her given name, but she gently corrects him. Her encounter with Don Quixote's love has changed her; she wants to live up to the vision he saw of her. She takes the name he gave her: Dulcinea.
The question for my heart is, has my encounter with God's love changed me the same way? Am I willing to leave the familiarity of sin to embark on the adventure of trusting God's tender love? To give up the life I have now to live up to the life He wants me to have?
I want to. By HIS grace (the power and desire to do His will!), I will!
We watched a movie this afternoon. Made in 1972, Man of La Mancha chronicles the adventures of the famous Don Quixote in his quest as the last knight errant to rid the world of evil.
I can't recommend the movie, really; I had expected a light-hearted musical in the tradition of Easter Parade or In the Good Ol' Summertime. What I got instead was a philosophical debate with catchy tunes thrown in. The musical presents a contest between idealism and realism in the dark confines of the Inquisitors' dungeon, illustrated by Don Quixote's outrageous behavior.
The elderly gentleman is the hero of the story. Though he is mad, seeing giants and castles where there are only windmills and decrepit inns, he is the noble one who strives not only to be good, but to do good.
Don Quixote and his squire, Sancho, arrive at a grubby inn where a caravan of muleteers are doing their best to seduce the fiery scullery maid, Aldonza, who repeatedly slaps their hands away. She has been badly used and abused; her anger is visible in every word she says and move she makes. Hard and cynical, she sarcastically replies to their comments with the song, "It's All the Same," where she makes very clear she knows what the men want, but that it's only available for a price. All through the song she strides through the mob of scoundrels seated around the tables in the dirty inn courtyard, singing defiantly that once the price is paid she doesn't care who paid it, since men are all the same.
Then Don Quixote literally rides onto the scene. In his eyes, the gray, drab, dirty inn is a fine castle; the disreputable inn keeper is the noble lord and keeper of the fortress. After an undignified dismount from his horse and a brief word with the inn-keeper, Don Quixote suddenly stops, staring in awe.
"Dulcinea!" he exclaims.
He has caught sight of the bedraggled Aldonza, and his heart is lost forever.
He, of course, is convinced that she is a noblewoman, a pure and lovely treasure, blessed with all the fine graces befitting her exalted lineage. He insists that her name is Dulcinea, and sings her a gentle love song. At first she scoffs, then softens, then hardens her heart to the song that includes the words,
I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea,
And thy name is like a prayer
An angel whispers... Dulcinea... Dulcinea!
The next day, Don Quixote continues to woo his lady, Dulcinea. Aldonza is bewildered by his tender devotion, but hardens her heart toward him.
That night Aldonza is on her way to meet up with a paying customer when she sees Don Quixote, holding prayerful vigil in the courtyard as he prepares to be knighted the next day. She is curious, and she thinks she knows what he is really after. She stops to talk to him, expecting at any moment he will proposition her like every other man she has known. The conversation that followed brought tears to my eyes:
I know you, milady.
I think you know me not.
All my years I have known you, your nobility of spirit...
long have I seen you in my heart.
Your heart doesn't know much about women.
It knows all, milady.
Woman is the soul of man...
the radiance that lights his way.
Woman is glory.
What do you want of me?
- Nothing. -
Liar!!
[humbly] I deserve the rebuke.
- I ask of milady...
Now we get to it!
That I may be allowed to serve her...
that I may hold her in my heart...
that to her I may dedicate each victory...
and call upon her in defeat.
and call upon her in defeat."That I may be allowed to serve her, and hold her in my heart..." While she expected the abuse she had known and embraced, he held out pure devotion and gentility. Even as she went to prostitute herself, he pledged his undying love to her.
And if at last I give my life...
I give it in the sacred name of Dulcinea.
As we were watching that scene, a little thought popped into my head: I am Aldonza. We all are.
God cherishes us. He loves us with a deep, everlasting love that makes any love we know seem empty by comparison, just like in the story where Don Quixote's innocent, pure devotion is contrasted with the mule-driver's leering lust.
But we aren't ready to believe it; we don't really trust that God loves us that much. Like Aldonza, we're waiting for the axe to fall; He loves us this much because He wants something out of it. And every time something bad happens in our lives, we yell out, "Now we get to it!" He's just been playing with us in the good times to win us over and bring us hope so He can have the fun of smashing it.
But His heart is breaking! He really does love us, with no reservations, despite of who we are, despite what we've done, and despite how we will fail in the future. He sees us as His bride, pure and spotless, and everything that comes to us is part of His loving us. He doesn't have ulterior motives; what could we possibly give him? He is devoted to us; He has pledged himself to us, to be our defender, our rock, our knight in shining armor.
The last scene we see of Aldonza is after Don Quixote's death as she and Sancho grieve together. He calls her by her given name, but she gently corrects him. Her encounter with Don Quixote's love has changed her; she wants to live up to the vision he saw of her. She takes the name he gave her: Dulcinea.
The question for my heart is, has my encounter with God's love changed me the same way? Am I willing to leave the familiarity of sin to embark on the adventure of trusting God's tender love? To give up the life I have now to live up to the life He wants me to have?
I want to. By HIS grace (the power and desire to do His will!), I will!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Workmanship
I am making a new purse.
We are having special meetings at church.
These are related.
Life Action is a team that has taken over my church. But that's not a bad thing; that's what they are supposed to do. They are preachers, musicians, family pastors, and children's ministry workers that travel from church to church bringing a special message of personal revival. While the team is here, we don't have to cover the music, or preschool, or anything. The team takes care of it all so that the church folks can just attend the service and listen.
There are special meetings every night except Friday and Saturday for two weeks. It's not an old-fashioned revival, with a pulpit-pounding preacher thundering for the audience to walk the aisle. It's not about evangelism, but about personal, individual revival for members of the church.
We spent the first few meetings talking about what prevents revival and what kind of heart God revives. In the revival prevention area, I heard many things that I considered part of my personality, not anything so nasty as sin: stubbornness, claiming my rights, and insisting that I am right, among others. After an honest inventory, I wondered how I think I'm such a great person, when there are so many things wrong in so many areas of my life.
After these sessions that seemed about as reviving as getting repeatedly whacked with a two-by-four (the Spirit's conviction! Ouch!), we had a message about grace last night. It was wonderfully refreshing to hear that grace is the power and desire to do what God wants. I've felt guilty about not wanting to read my Bible, not wanting to pray, not wanting to do what may be right. But just like I can ask for God's grace in other areas, I can ask for the desire to do what He wants me to do. It doesn't mean that I won't read the Bible if I don't feel like it. It was just a freeing realization that God's grace, the grace that covers me, is available to me whenever I ask for it. I don't need to feel guilty that I need grace! Thank you, Lord!
Tonight we had a talk about confession and repentance. We had a long list of things, a kind of checklist or inventory to remind us of things that we need to confess. I stopped checking after the first 18 boxes or so; out of 70-something sins, if I had that many so far, I might as well just go through and confess each one unless I found an exception. I never realized how much ratty junk there was in my life.
I have been constructing a purse for the past couple of weeks. I haven't had much time to work on it, but I spent some more time on it this week and now it's almost done. It's related to a project I finished a few months ago: a purse made out of old ties.
The last project, the purse I carry now, is one that I made out of ties Scott bought for me at the charity shop. I found a pattern on the internet, and modified it slightly (I like outside pockets and a zipper instead of a magnetic snap-flap) to make a one-of-a-kind handbag. It's huge, though, and pretty heavy, even when it's relatively empty. So I thought I'd use the scraps left from that project to make another one.
As I was working on my new purse, trying to trim the seams from the beautiful yet horribly difficult lining fabric, I started thinking about my big purse. It's pretty. It has many different colors and textures, handy pockets on the outside, and a nice zipper top. The handle is wide so it doesn't dig into my shoulder. I have gotten oodles of compliments from complete strangers about how nice my purse is.
But I know better.
I know that spot on the zipper where I had to cut it off because it was too long, then sew it up so that the zipper couldn't fly off the end.
I can point out the places it's fraying because I couldn't finish the seam properly.
The zipper doesn't go all the way to the end, leaving a little spot unfinished on the zipper extending fabric, so that fabric frays and there's a small hole.
I see the crooked seams, the unfinished spots, the handle that never got finished the way I wanted, and a dozen other things that no one else notices.
But I notice. Because I made it. I wanted it to be better than that. When other people look at it, they see the contrasting colors and the unique design. When I look at it, I see how it has fallen short of the standard.
*Bing!* There's the connection. It connected in my head just as slowly as it has connected here. That's why these church meetings are so good and important; they're helping me see some of the frayed edges that I haven't let God sew up properly. They're a constant eyesore to him, but I've been able to overlook them, only noticing the nicer parts of myself.
Now the magnifying glass is out, and I've been forced to see my sin for what it is: plain, ugly, putrid, sickening sin.
But God doesn't point out these things to sink me beneath waves of despair. He hasn't thrown me out. He wants better for me. He wants to fix the problem, not just with patches and fabric glue, but by re-making me entirely, into the image of His Son, Jesus.
And He will. He promised.
I can rest, "being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you [and me!] will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."(Philippians 1:6)
We are having special meetings at church.
These are related.
Life Action is a team that has taken over my church. But that's not a bad thing; that's what they are supposed to do. They are preachers, musicians, family pastors, and children's ministry workers that travel from church to church bringing a special message of personal revival. While the team is here, we don't have to cover the music, or preschool, or anything. The team takes care of it all so that the church folks can just attend the service and listen.
There are special meetings every night except Friday and Saturday for two weeks. It's not an old-fashioned revival, with a pulpit-pounding preacher thundering for the audience to walk the aisle. It's not about evangelism, but about personal, individual revival for members of the church.
We spent the first few meetings talking about what prevents revival and what kind of heart God revives. In the revival prevention area, I heard many things that I considered part of my personality, not anything so nasty as sin: stubbornness, claiming my rights, and insisting that I am right, among others. After an honest inventory, I wondered how I think I'm such a great person, when there are so many things wrong in so many areas of my life.
After these sessions that seemed about as reviving as getting repeatedly whacked with a two-by-four (the Spirit's conviction! Ouch!), we had a message about grace last night. It was wonderfully refreshing to hear that grace is the power and desire to do what God wants. I've felt guilty about not wanting to read my Bible, not wanting to pray, not wanting to do what may be right. But just like I can ask for God's grace in other areas, I can ask for the desire to do what He wants me to do. It doesn't mean that I won't read the Bible if I don't feel like it. It was just a freeing realization that God's grace, the grace that covers me, is available to me whenever I ask for it. I don't need to feel guilty that I need grace! Thank you, Lord!
Tonight we had a talk about confession and repentance. We had a long list of things, a kind of checklist or inventory to remind us of things that we need to confess. I stopped checking after the first 18 boxes or so; out of 70-something sins, if I had that many so far, I might as well just go through and confess each one unless I found an exception. I never realized how much ratty junk there was in my life.
I have been constructing a purse for the past couple of weeks. I haven't had much time to work on it, but I spent some more time on it this week and now it's almost done. It's related to a project I finished a few months ago: a purse made out of old ties.
The last project, the purse I carry now, is one that I made out of ties Scott bought for me at the charity shop. I found a pattern on the internet, and modified it slightly (I like outside pockets and a zipper instead of a magnetic snap-flap) to make a one-of-a-kind handbag. It's huge, though, and pretty heavy, even when it's relatively empty. So I thought I'd use the scraps left from that project to make another one.
As I was working on my new purse, trying to trim the seams from the beautiful yet horribly difficult lining fabric, I started thinking about my big purse. It's pretty. It has many different colors and textures, handy pockets on the outside, and a nice zipper top. The handle is wide so it doesn't dig into my shoulder. I have gotten oodles of compliments from complete strangers about how nice my purse is.
But I know better.
I know that spot on the zipper where I had to cut it off because it was too long, then sew it up so that the zipper couldn't fly off the end.
I can point out the places it's fraying because I couldn't finish the seam properly.
The zipper doesn't go all the way to the end, leaving a little spot unfinished on the zipper extending fabric, so that fabric frays and there's a small hole.
I see the crooked seams, the unfinished spots, the handle that never got finished the way I wanted, and a dozen other things that no one else notices.
But I notice. Because I made it. I wanted it to be better than that. When other people look at it, they see the contrasting colors and the unique design. When I look at it, I see how it has fallen short of the standard.
*Bing!* There's the connection. It connected in my head just as slowly as it has connected here. That's why these church meetings are so good and important; they're helping me see some of the frayed edges that I haven't let God sew up properly. They're a constant eyesore to him, but I've been able to overlook them, only noticing the nicer parts of myself.
Now the magnifying glass is out, and I've been forced to see my sin for what it is: plain, ugly, putrid, sickening sin.
But God doesn't point out these things to sink me beneath waves of despair. He hasn't thrown me out. He wants better for me. He wants to fix the problem, not just with patches and fabric glue, but by re-making me entirely, into the image of His Son, Jesus.
And He will. He promised.
I can rest, "being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you [and me!] will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."(Philippians 1:6)
Thursday, September 3, 2009
All good gifts come from the Father of lights... and music!
Ode to Joy! Hear the voices soaring and the intricate counterpoint of the strings! The harmony! But especially after the rest of the 9th... you can't appreciate that sudden burst of ecstasy until you've listened to the quiet, even melancholy passages that precede it.... then suddenly the choir bursts forth and the whole orchestra resounds with rejoicing. And Beethoven was deaf when he wrote it! Oh, God, what a gift you have given to us in music! If this earthly choir, sculpted out of the dust by your hands, can stir my soul and lift my heart to You, how much more the throng that will surround Your throne, and the angelic choirs that sing, forever, Holy!
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