In the Pink

Recently, I read this article about the "unreal" color pink. http://www.npr.org/blogs/krulwich/2012/02/28/147590898/they-did-it-to-pluto-but-not-to-pink-please-not-pink?sc=fb&cc=fp
It occurred to me that I love pink!  You'll never convince me it isn't there just because the science of light waves can't support the color's existence.
And my soul sees pink as well.

January 9, 2005
I think I've discovered one of the things holding me up in my plans regarding ordination into ministry, etc.  It's the whole "being a woman" thing.  There are some parts of the Bible I can't read with a good attitude, and I'm certainly not ready to address them as a minister.  I struggle when I read:
 




<><><><><><>

	Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but [they are commanded] to be under obedience, as also saith the law.
	And if they will learn any thing, let them ask their husbands at home: for it is a shame for women to speak in the church.
	What? came the word of God out from you? or came it unto you only?   I need wisdom and knowledge, Lord, for this rejection breaks my heart!  I thought you liked that Mary sat at your feet?  I love that story, but this one makes me outraged or at least whiny. One thing I know...I must allow myself to be "of no account" on any front You present to me--I must take up my cross...even this one. I will submit. I will be silent. If my words are to ever be read or heard, it will be by Your initiative and not my own.  I should say this with humility, but in truth, right now these verses stick in my craw.  I have a "Well, fine!" attitude in response to this "Who do you think you are?  You're just a woman!" Reveal Your truth, O God!  Help me fit the peg of my life into the puzzle according to what I know about the nature of Your love...love even for women. (today) This lament was just the dawning of awareness.  It foretold awareness of a tide that has rolled in on the beach of my life pretty much all aong.  It was a whisper in the moonlight here, but soon the rushing waves pounded and made me lose my footing.  For some reason, I'm one of those people "chosen" to be constantly under critique--and I'm so impressionable that I've learned to eloquently add my own voice to the barrage of criticism, picking apart both my failures and my successes.  If I fail, I rarely hear: "Aww, don't get too depressed.  You surely learned something, so you'll probably do better next time."  I say those things to others--particularly to encourage children--but I rarely hear them.  Instead, I hear or say to myself if no one else notes my failure: "Well, if you'd only done ________ then you would have been fine!"  Or maybe my failure isn't dealt with so directly by others; maybe it just endures passive-aggressive hinted barbs:  "People who _______ are soooo annoying!"  said right after I've done that very thing, and often unwitting that it's a bother until I'm told. As for my successes, those around me are always quick to see and point out ways I could have been even more successful, and I can't hear a "Well done!" without it being adulterated with those recommendations, too.  Again, my self-talk drifts this direction as well.  There are days when it feels like I can't move without having to attend to someone's disappointment in my performance in  all things--literally, all things: from how I wash a platter to how I sleep.  And no one person is to blame, so no one person recognizes the effects of such a barrage.  To any one person, it's a moment of well-intentioned advice.  To me, the recipient of all this advice, it is a Chinese water torture.  No, some bogle has attached itself to me.  It feeds off this particular type of discord and invites everyone who comes within a 10 foot radius of me to feed it.  For a long time, my way of cooperating in this ugly dance was to believe that "fixing" whatever was presented to me would solve the problem.  Listening to the criticism, taking it to heart, working hard to change...but there is to this day still no light at the end of this dark tunnel. For one thing, some things aren't easily fixed--like the hormonal imbalance in my thyroid that has weakened me for years and was only just discovered. It was slow-going, but the damage is reversible and strength is returning slowly.  But now, I walk the early days of having my faucet fixed if you will.  No more slow drip of strength washing away, but I'm discovering something surprising:  the bogle hasn't gone away just because the strength to do well is returning.  After all, he never was content oriented.  He was all about atmosphere.  A "demon of the air" if you will.  Fodder lays all over the place for criticizing imperfect humans and making them discontent with their very personhood--and that was, after all, his objective.  Plenty of tools lie in easy reach, tools for making humans feel shame over their imperfections--especially if they are the type to genuinely hope they make life better for those around them.  Look at him:  he's the country cousin to the demon who thrives on attachment to humans who glory in their imperfection.   I finally saw his game when he played his ace untimely:  making the move to condemn the things that can't be changed.  Here's one such unchangeable-ace he likes to play to trump all tricks:  you are beneath esteem because you are a woman.  Maybe the man who lives with you will condescend to teach you a thing or two--much like the novelty of teaching a dog to fetch a bone or shake hands.  But ultimately such things are just a light diversion for the man.  It's all just fluff, really, because nothing is going to  increase your intrinsic value, woman.  In certain circles of the Christian faith, being born a woman is akin to being born an untouchable in India in the sense that your value will always be measured by your submissiveness, and your potential for value within yourself will always be nil.  "In childbirth is her salvation." And that's the rub:  we'd all love to feel we are people of stand-alone value.  After all, we are born a singular entity, we die alone, we are judged alone.  But our value is role-based.  Really?   Is it merely pride that makes us want to push our way past another's value.  I'd say no.  Sometimes, something inside us--maybe that image of God part--finds it deeply offensive to be told we are designed without value, without potential to bring a smile to the face of our Creator unless someone in between us gives the nod. I can trust Christ as that mediator, but I find it hazardous to allow others to usurp His place.  I am not strong enough yet to see His eyes even in a malevolent face.  Of course, I'm so well-conditioned in this restless dissatisfaction, this hopelessness over the things that can't be changed that my self-talk immediately runs to reminders of verses about God fashioning some vessels for honor and some for dishonor.  But in this area, I'd reason back to myself that if I've been implanted with a longing to experience God's lovingkindness and mercy, his joy and peace, then it makes Him the worst sort of capricious if He brushes off my ache for Him so callously on the recommendation of an authority who makes jokes of my submission and really doesn't esteem it as a gift--as I overheard a few religious young men doing the other day regarding "their women."   If I turn away from His lovingkindness because of some human's cavalier disparagement of me then Rahab would surely rise up to condemn me. As would Huldah. As would Deborah, for whom I am namesake. What do I do with this, God?  I see pink--in the sky, in a flower...and I long to glory in the beauty of it. I hate being told it simply can't exist when my heart can see it! What do I do with this?  I asked God about it this morning.  Oh, I've made a sort of peace with the female-calling thing lodged in this old journal entry, you'll read of it soon enough--or might suspect it even now from that little cloud of females I drew around me just above.  Nevertheless, I deal with a constant encroachment of thorns that say, "You should be different; by my estimation and for my sake, you should be different." These human thorns condemn with every prick.  What should I do with these?  The first words to come to mind in answer are the proverbial verse:  be cunning as a serpent and gentle as a dove.  Grasp the stem of the rose carefully.  You can appreciate the aroma and the loveliness of the bloom only if you are careful how you hold the stem in your hand. The next words to come to mind when I pray about this are odd ones. I pictured a monkey on my back, his hairy knuckles ever reaching over my shoulder to point to the work of my hands with his mouth full of fault-finding language.  I envision him as I deal with my hope for freedom. "Go away now.  I don't need you anymore," I say over my shoulder to the monkey. I don't need you anymore? Interesting.  What purpose hasthis unredeemed submission to the monkey's correction been serving that I ever needed? Reveal Your purpose to me, Lord.  Redeem the time, all the time...all 48 years of it!  Amen...